


A Study in Bad-Ass, Blood Boiling Red

by hangonsilvergirl



Series: However Improbable [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Relationships, Multi, Re-Imagined Sherlock Holmes, Sexual Tension, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangonsilvergirl/pseuds/hangonsilvergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A string of horrific murders has the Military stumped. Former State Alchemist, Edward Elric, is brought on to consult the investigation, and his new roommate, Winry Rockbell, finds herself tailing after and assisting him, mesmerized by his unorthodox, but admittedly effective, alchemic means of deduction.</p><p>"<i>I write off having that shower I’d thought about earlier, sacrificing it for Edward. Edward with his red cheeks, and red sweater and lips reddened from a damn good kiss; a man whose goofy smile I want more time to study.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Edward Elric

Home Sweet Home became an unobtrusive brick and mortar, rust-coloured with impeccably manicured flower boxes on each window, and a self-sufficient, overly dedicated lilac bush out front that nearly reached the roof. There was a patch of grass opposite the lilacs that passed itself off as a yard, and a back alley that hosted the garbage bins (not to mention a choir of stray cats, most nights), and a single mailbox by the front door that always sat crooked no matter who tried to straighten it. Excusing the flowers, the house played the part of typical and unassuming well, blending in easily on the residential end of Baker Street. It had three apartments: The perpetually unoccupied basement, the main floor where Widow Hughes, the landlady, lived with her daughter, and the upper floor, which I came to share with prodigal former Fullmetal Alchemist.

My name is Winry Rockbell, and I am a master automail technician. Through both my mother and father I am part of a long line of doctors and celebrated automail crafters, and much of our reputation has come from being warzone medics (how my parents lost their lives) and building artificial limbs for the survivors of such conflicts. The majority of my patients are veterans of the Ishval Civil War, and I spent nearly two years aiding in the rehabilitation of soldiers in Briggs following a heavy Drachman assault (a serious breach of the Non-Aggression Pact, which left Amestris poised for war). I relocated to Central City when the military offered me a surgical apprenticeship that would still allow me to treat my own clientele out of their general offices.

I was introduced to Edward Elric through a mutual friend, after expressing my need for somewhere relatively inexpensive to live in the vicinity of the military hospital. I was warned that he was as eccentric and hot-tempered as he was brilliant, but found him easy-going (or perhaps ‘indifferent’ is more accurate) enough at our first meeting. The rent was the right price, and the space itself was a decent size, if a bit… _tasteless_. There was a large living area papered in a hideous checkered red and black print, a mis-match of armchairs beside the functioning fireplace, and almost every surface, if not occupied by stacks and stacks of books, featured some sort of gaudy, gothic decoration. (In particular, there were a lot of skulls.) The kitchen looked like a laboratory, and the bathroom was shared, but the space that would be mine remained thankfully untouched by Edward’s horrendous sense of style. Mrs. Hughes seemed sweet, her little girl, Elicia, precocious and endearing. The likelihood of finding something better was slim, and I was tired of looking, so I offered to take it on the spot.

Looking back I was, perhaps, naive, but then again I’m not sure that anyone could’ve predicted the eventual outcome of my decision. If someone had told me then, I doubt I would’ve have believed them anyway; reality still sort of strikes me as implausible. That said, I should have been more put off than I was by the answering mischief evident in Edward Elric’s eyes, and my first experience of what I have come to (internally) refer to as his Signature Dick Grin. Instead, after settling on a move in date and shaking hands, all I could think was that if he dressed and decorated like a normal person, he could probably be mistaken as attractive.

The truth, I have come to discover, is that there is _nothing_ normal about Edward Elric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story (and it's chapter titles) is very loosely inspired by _A Study in Scarlet_.
> 
> I will be adding tags as I post new chapters.


	2. Alchemic Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on.

Thunder rocked the sky while lightning brightened it, rain pouring down in miserable sheets. It was the sort of night best spent at home, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in one hand and a good book in the other. Instead, Colonel Roy Mustang found himself in the middle of the downpour, in a back alley in the downtown core, watching his subordinates struggle to keep the ludicrous amount of blood at his crime scene from running down the sewers. The victim was a young woman, rendered completely unrecognizable by the wound that had undoubtedly killed her. Thankfully she’d been carrying ID.

“Vera Biennial, sir,” Riza Hawkeye, his adjutant, said to his right, raising her voice over the roar of the rain. “28-years-old. An alchemist. Her specialty was botany. It would seem she was registered for the licensing examinations.” Hawkeye was holding an umbrella over the both of them, an open file (which had been passed to them before they departed from HQ) carefully sheltered in her opposite hand. She closed it and slid it deftly inside her suit jacket, and, without speaking, they both moved closer to the deceased.

Roy frowned.Vera Biennial was splayed face down on the cobblestone, right arm reaching up and out, the left bent down, fingers loosely clenched. She wore a matching red skirt and blazer, and nearly shredded pantyhose. Though It was hard to tell in the streetlight and through the rain, her legs and wrists seem bruised. A broken high-heeled shoe sat about four feet away from where she was, it’s mate conspicuously missing. She’d suffered a truly appalling head injury that coated the sidewalk in her skin, brains, and hair. Or had, he supposed, until the rain had washed too much of it away. Traces of alchemy lingered despite the weather’s determination to obstruct justice. This was why Roy and his team where there: Someone had used alchemy to murder an alchemist.

It being such a gruesome first impression, Roy had a sinking, stomach churning feeling that this would not be the first exploded head he’d see. In fact, he'd heard rumors of similar fates befalling a number of alchemists in West City.

Bending to the victim’s level, Roy crouched above her left hand. He removed his glove, exchanging it with Hawkeye for a rubber contemporary, before carefully prising the corpse’s fingers back. There was a scrap of paper scrunched in her hand, which the Colonel picked up and carefully smoothed with his thumb. Despite the dampness of the paper and resultantly smudged ink, the letters **R A C H E** were clearly visible. Transmutation marks were evident here as they were on the victim’s head.

Roy exchanged a look with Hawkeye, then rose to his feet.

***

“I don’t understand,” I say from my chair, watching my new roommate with narrowed eyes as he paces the floor manically. (I can’t properly describe maniacal pacing, but there is no better adjective for what he is demonstrating, I promise you.) He rolls his eyes and stops in his tracks, turning to face me.

“What good,” he so well as sneers, “is a big fucking brain, if you don’t do anything with it?”

Mid-sip-of-tea, I glare at him over the brim of my cup. Taking my time to swallow and compose a proper rebuttal, I finally say, “Right. I would absolutely love to hear your step-by-step guide to properly attaching nerves to an automail port. Limb of your choice.”

He snorts, and resumes his pacing.

I have been living with Edward Elric now for a month, and I am equal parts enthralled with him and ready to push him out the window. He is a condescending ass who takes his over-inflated ego very seriously, constantly pumping it full of wonder-kid narcissism. By the same token he is undoubtedly intelligent, has an unquestionably unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He challenges himself to learn constantly, something I very much admire (though I'm not sure I'd tell him as much), but holds the rest of the world to the same, sometimes absurd, standard. I swear he reads ten books a day.

“Must be a nice view,” I comment idly, after a few moments of silence.

“Huh?”

“From that pedestal you’ve put yourself on.”

He snorts again. “Please, oh Rockbellest of the Wondrous Rockbells, teach me lessons in humility.” He stops pacing again and plops himself down in the chair across from me. I stubbornly meet his eyes, despite (or perhaps because of) my blush. “The view is spectacular, if infuriating sometimes. You should know, since you can see the same shit.”

“Smartass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He’s grinning like a twit now, and I throw my book at him. I regret it immediately.

“Oh-ho! Here’s a feast for the mind,” he practically cackles as he surveys the cover of _The Long-Song Alchemist_. The broken spine and tattered jacket give my love of that stupid book away, a trashy romance novel that I’ve read so many times it’s embarrassing to admit the number. “I bet you know all the best synonyms for boobs and dicks. It’s all heaving bosoms and rock-solid sausages, right?”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes.”It’s a guilty pleasure, _Mr. Elric_ ,” I say defensively, holding my hand out for it’s return. “Like your side-job in turning this apartment into a nutty, gothic shrine.”

Lazily he hands the book back, grinning. “You should read it out loud. Have you written your greatest hopes and dreams in the margins? You should include them as footnotes.”

My response to this is wholly nonverbal, and considered rude in polite company, but as I am not in polite company I couldn't give two shits less.

Gamely he winks and says, “Sure, but lets just steer the dirty talk away from throbbing manhoods and delicate flowers, hey?”

I choke on my tea. The Signature Dick Grin rears its ugly head, pun God damn intended. He’s won this round.

We’re quiet for a little while after that. I go back to reading my book and enjoying my tea, albeit guardedly. Edward retrieves a sandwich from the fridge and perches himself on the windowsill with a volume of Xingese poetry. I choose not to call him out on this given the context of our conversation, and especially because I think he’s doing it on purpose. One month and he already knows exactly how to get under my skin. It’s infuriating.

It’s been my past experience with new roommates that there’s always a warming up period, where you get a feel for one another. Where tentativeness and respectfulness go hand-in-hand because learning to live with someone’s tics and within their boundaries can be quite challenging. After moving into 221B Baker Street, I expected this same standard from Edward Elric. There are no boundaries with him, though. He’s the sort of person who, if you build up walls around him, he’ll crash through them so thoroughly you’d think you ordered the destruction yourself. He is insatiably curious, as I guess you might expect the youngest State Alchemist in history to be, and what I perceive to be a near textbook representation of the Designer/Theorizer Introvert. He comes across as an obnoxious jackass, but really I think he just lives to argue. I can see how he rubs people the wrong way (he succeeds at that with me a good chunk of the time), but once I was able to get over the shock of his forwardness, and bluntness, I began to enjoy his twisted company. I really don’t know what that says about me.

“Edward,” I ask suddenly, looking up at him and pulling my attention away from the Love-Song Alchemist’s billowing locks and capable swooning.

“Hmm?” he answers, not quite detaching himself from his poetry or dinner.

“Explain it to me again.”

He inhales deeply (in a preparing sense, I think; he doesn’t seem agitated) and looks over at me. “Okay,” he says after a beat and puts down his book before stuffing the rest of his sandwich in his face. He climbs down off the windowsill and plonks back across from me, a considering expression on his face. “You get the basics of alchemy.”

“Well, yeah.”

“So tell me.”

Startled, I hesitate, “Uh.” Then give it my best go. “It’s... manipulating natural energy in order to alter matter. Metaphysical science.”

“Right,” he says, and I can tell he’s trying to be patient. He could probably talk out a definition for alchemy for days, weeks even. “And to alter matter, you have to what?”

I think carefully. “Comprehend, deconstruct, and reconstruct."

He seems pleasantly surprised by my answer. “Exactly. So alchemists recognize the world for what it is down to the very basic of elements. Armed with the knowledge of how things behave naturally, we can, figuratively and literally, shape the world.”

It’s much easier to appreciate and understand Edward Elric when he’s not rambling passionately at a mile a minute. Picking up from our earlier conversation, or what of it I did manage to decipher, I question, “So what you’re implying is that it leaves a mark?”

“That part's not an implication, it’s an irrefutable fact,” he counters testily. “Alchemy leaves traces if you know where to look and what to look for. What I’m _implying_ , or what I’ve figured out, is that those marks are more telling than most people realize.”

“How do you mean?”

“Think of it like this. When you practice signing your name in cursive, it’s all smooth and perfect, right? Because you’re working on it and being purposefully attentive to try to make it look a certain way. Do you do that every time you sign your name, though? When you sign cheques, and contracts, and sign for parcels? There’ll be aspects that are consistent, obviously, which is why other people can still look to make a match and say ‘Yep, that’s Edward Elric’s handwriting’... But the range can be from a hasty scribble to a careful flourish.”

“So… what? Transmutation marks are the signatures of individual alchemists, and they vary… In a situational sense?” Colour me skeptical.

Edward nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“How on Earth do you market that in a consulting capacity?”

As if on cue the bell rings. I glance at my watch; it’s quarter past ten and I can’t help but wonder who the hell is popping by for a visit at this hour, and in this weather. Edward seems to be thinking the same thing, and he raises an eyebrow before pushing himself up, presumably to eavesdrop better. We hear the outside door open and the low murmur of voices, then feet coming up the stairs toward us. Edward’s at the door before they can knock, and I am honestly astonished to see two soldiers on the threshold (a dark haired man and a blonde woman) in full, dripping wet, military blues.

“Mustang,” Edward greets the stranger, voice wavering between irritation and interest. “You seem soggier than usual.”

“A hour at a crime scene in this monsoon’ll do that to you, Fullmetal,” the man answers, peering into the room and nodding somewhat dryly to me. “You busy?”

“Depends. Why are you here?”

“We found an alchemist downtown with an exploded head. Thought it might interest you.”

Smiling in a self-satisfied sort of way, Edward crosses his arms over his chest. “Meaning you’ve got no fucking clue what’s going on.”

Mustang sighs. “Not particularly, no. And I’m not so sure that I want to.”

Edward falters a little at this. “Are you dragging me out in the rain, then?”

“No. I’m asking you to come to HQ.”

After a very brief consideration of these words, Edward nods almost imperceptibly and reaches for his coat on the hook to the left of the door. Mustang and his associate start back down the stairs, and as Edward begins to put his jacket on, he looks at me expectantly.

“What?”

He grins. “Don’t you want to see a practical demonstration of my deductive alchemy?”


	3. The Mid-Thigh Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elementary.

Excusing the hammering rain and periodic crashes of thunder and lightning, the car ride to Central HQ is uneventful. Colonel Mustang and his companion (who introduces herself as Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye; she, myself, and the Colonel briefly acquaint ourselves _without_ Edward’s assistance, not surprisingly) are keeping to themselves. Mustang is riding shotgun, oblivious to the world around him, absorbed in what I can only assume is the case file. Lieutenant Hawkeye is driving, carefully, taking her time through the downpour. I sincerely doubt that she can see more than three feet in front of the car.

If they were surprised to see me tagging along with Edward they didn’t show or verbalize it, and I wonder if maybe he’s done something similar, with someone else, before. Given the circumstances it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that they were writing me off as Edward’s newest eccentricity, either (which is, granted, how _I_ feel about the situation), or maybe they’ve already looked into my past _because_ I’ve moved in with a former State Alchemist, and they think the worst, so this situation is all the better for keeping a close eye on me. Then again, maybe they’re just having a terrible night and couldn’t care less about my presence so long as it means that Edward Elric takes their case. 

Edward, beside me, is clearly restless, and I can tell he’s itching to be in the thick of things; he’s drumming his fingers idly against the glass, tapping his opposite foot, and he suddenly strikes me as being someone in a perpetual state of hoping to get into a fist fight. Since moving in with him, I’ve noticed that he’s frequently tense and agitated, and that when he isn’t employing the use of shit-eating grins, he has a scowl permanently etched on his face. I know that he’s capable of happiness, sadness, and a range of emotions outside of anger (though I might not have believed it possible, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes), and I often catch myself wondering what terrible things he must have experienced in his life to cause him to wield his rage like a sword, and use his temper as a shield.

There’s not much in the public record concerning Edward’s past outside of the military (I may or may not have gone to the library immediately after agreeing to move in with him). He and his younger brother, Alphonse, were orphans, and Edward was considered an alchemical prodigy from a very young age. He was recruited by the Amestrian military, and was certified as a state alchemist shortly after he turned 12, the youngest in history. As a soldier, he (and his brother in an unofficial capacity, if I’m properly reading between the lines) worked under Colonel Mustang for a number of years, and has many notable achievements under his belt. When Edward turned 18, and to the surprise of the nation, he resigned from active service, annulling his claim to the ‘Fullmetal’ title. Alphonse went into private security, and Edward moved to Baker Street, where he started advertising himself as the Consulting Alchemist. That was three years ago.

Looking at file photos and newspaper clippings, it’s obvious that Edward has matured somewhat, even if his demeanor hasn’t changed much overall. He definitely _seemed_ angrier as a child, and carries himself now with more _confidence_ than _defiance_ , which makes me wonder if what he puts forth is not more or less a combination of habit and show. He also, thankfully, doesn’t dress like he used to, though it’s clear he’s suffered from a severe lack of taste for his entire life. In those days he wore all black, hulking combat boots, and an over-sized, red hooded cloak that I’m willing to bet dollars to donuts he had just so he could rip it off dramatically at opportune moments. All I’ve seen him wear in the time that I’ve known him is not-particularly-stylish slacks with crew-necks and button-downs, and pajamas. He still wears his blond hair long, though in a ponytail these days instead of a plait. He’s taller, as well, which I’m sure is good for his ego given he looked shrimp-sized as an adolescent. In pictures with his brother he’s particularly dwarfed and almost comically juxtaposed, as Alphonse is outrageously tall and employed the use of a full suit of armor. I’ve yet to see a picture of his actual face, but it is incredibly hard to believe that genetics could produce such drastic height extremes from two kids with the same parents. Perhaps especially given how old they were at the time; Alphonse looked like a grown man, for goodness sake, and he's the baby of the two of them.

Edward hasn’t talked much about Alphonse to me.

I guess I should also mention exactly _why_ Edward was given the title ‘Fullmetal’ when he was certified. It’s because he has an automail right arm and left leg. Shoddy craftsmanship, too, and needless to say I’ve been pleading with him since day one to get himself a new mechanic. Me, that is. I could offer him gorgeous works of art (if I do say so myself, and I do), especially compared to the crap he’s sporting now, and every time they’re obviously visible I have to physically stop myself from cringing and ripping the limbs straight off of their ports. If that’s the same grade he’s been using ever since he lost them, however long ago that actually was, then I’m seriously surprised that he isn’t dead. He must be a martial arts master, or have a plethora of horse-shoes crammed up his ass. I'd put money on the latter.

I’d have to get a real good look at his arm and leg to be 100 per cent certain, but all the same I’m pretty sure that some of the shoddiness is on purpose. Some shady automail crafters will do this so that their clients have to get check ups and repairs more often, to milk them for all they’re worth. Someone probably took one look at that novice, hot-headed, shit-disturbing kid, and saw nothing but dollar signs. No matter where you go in life, or what you do, there are always people looking to make a buck off of other people’s misfortune. It’s infuriating.

“Why are you making that face?” Edward asks warily, drawing me out of my musings. “You look like you want to punch something.”

“Whatever she’s planning, you probably deserve it, Fullmetal,” Mustang comments idly from the front without turning around.

I turn to look at Edward, who is obviously alarmed by this statement. “Me?!” he practically shouts, his voice cracking. “I haven’t done shit, I’m just sitting here!”

I blink, then frown. “You’re brandishing that crap-ass automail under my nose. I swear, you’re doing it just to get a rise, you sadist.”

Mustang chuckles, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to, presumably, enjoy Edward’s flabbergasted expression.

“You loony, single-minded gearhead!”

“Let me do a commission, or I’ll take them off while you’re sleeping.”

“We’re here.”

Lieutenant Hawkeye’s even voice put a stopper in our argument before it even really begins. I can tell that Edward’s not done, and that he’s swallowing his comeback (presumably for fear of the Lieutenant; she seems pretty no-nonsense). We’re staring one another down, and he narrows his eyes. I raise my eyebrows before puffing myself up as haughtily as I can manage, then turn away, opening the door and stepping outside. Thankfully Hawkeye has pulled the car directly under a large awning, protecting us from the rain, and keeping my dramatic exit dignified.

Edward, seething now, stomps ahead of all of us into the building, and I wonder if perhaps I’ve had my invitation to his deducing rescinded. Mustang and Hawkeye press on unflustered, without saying anything to me, so I follow them warily, now somewhat deflated. They lead me through what feels like a labyrinth of hallways and down a flight of stairs before we arrive at the morgue. Edward has already found his way (I guess he’s been here before), and is examining a body with an intensity I almost find alarming. Mustang and Hawkeye engage the mortician (who was waiting for them, I think; the body is still dressed and dirty) while Edward does whatever it is he’s doing, and I hang back awkwardly by the door.

“Winry.”

He says my name so softly that I almost don’t hear him, and I look up from my shoes to see that he’s beckoning me without looking. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so out of place in a laboratory, and I’m suddenly very aware of my soggy purple sweater, torn jeans, and t-shirt advertising a band I don’t even think exists anymore. I shuffle over. He’s at the head of the gurney, though perhaps that’s a poor choice of words. There’s nothing on this corpse from the neck up aside from strings of ratty flesh, and Edward is unnervingly close to it. (I've been around enough corpses, since my Granny is a doctor, but definitely not headless ones.) “Do you see it?” he asks, gesturing to the body, and I lean in against my better judgement. It takes a moment’s focusing, but I soon realize that the edges of the ribbons of flesh seem to be flaking off slowly.

“What on Earth…?”

“Alchemy,” Edward answers. “It left it’s mark. Hey,” he adds, raising his voice and looking in Mustang’s direction. “Is there any of the head left?”

The mortician has it in a bowl. It’s a pulpy, stringy mass of flesh, hair, and bits of bone, but the same flaking is taking place, and at an accelerated rate. A texture akin to cross-hatching makes the alchemical traces more obvious to me. I point this out to Edward, who nods.

“Whoever did this, I think they just grabbed a faceful and just…” He mimes an explosion with both hands, and adds, “ _Boom_. They skipped the reconstruction part of the transmutation; just broke it all down and left it that way.” He shrugs, looking at Mustang. “She probably died right away. I mean, it’s pretty fucking gruesome, but I think the intent was to effectively end her, not play with her.”

The Colonel makes a noncommittal noise. Edward keeps talking.

“It’s not very refined, though whoever did it has done it before. They’re improving, and I think he was probably trying to direct it down so the mess was on the pavement instead of him.” He cocks his head. “I wouldn’t count on him having succeeded much in that respect, though it’d be a hell of a lot easier to track the bastard if it wasn’t raining. Balance of probability says it’s a man, judging from the angle. He was looking down at her, and I’ll bet with that outfit that she was wearing frou frou shoes, so,” Edward shrugs. Hawkeye is taking notes, and Mustang is listening intently.

“When I say not refined,” he continues, wandering back to the body and looking it over from neck to feet. “I mean that he’s _self-taught_. It’s raw power, and not very controlled. He’s just pushing buttons and seeing what happens. Until he gets better at it, he’s probably going to be pretty winded and vulnerable afterward too, judging from the force he’s exerting.”

I’m impressed. There’s a mesmerized silence in the room that suggests I’m not the only one.

Edward’s quiet for a moment as he looks her over, not touching at all, just observing. “She’s got chalk dust in her fingernails, so I think she was fighting back. Looks like it was pretty intense, too; she’s bled through her blouse, destroyed her pantyhose, and there’s holes in her skirt. I think she’s got some glass in her too… pretty much all over. Broken windows, maybe? I dunno. But wherever you find the mess they made, you’ll likely find her other shoe.” He gestures to her naked feet. “One sole’s black with dirt and cut up, the other’s clean.”

I’m watching his movements carefully, taking in his explanations, following him down the length of the body. I notice a few things too, all seemingly unimportant, like her manicure, and the re-hemmed line of her skirt. When Edward starts talking about her feet I feel myself fixating on her left thigh. Something’s not right. I know the human body too well, and something… something with her leg is very, very wrong.

I move closer. The mortician offered us gloves when she brought out what was left of the head for Edward, and so I have no qualms with touching the body as soon as I reach it. I gently feel the spot that’s drawing my eye, mid-thigh, just above where the hem of her skirt would fall. Very carefully, I circle the entire thigh. It’s most obvious where I can’t see at all.

I realize that everyone is now watching me with the same reverence they gave Edward, and I’m startled by it. “O-oh. Sorry, I--” I clear my throat. Edward can tell I found something, and nods encouragingly. “Um. I just noticed that her skirt had been re-hemmed, and that, well. The colour is off, just here. Of her skin, I mean.” I gesture to the barely perceptible line. “At first I thought that maybe it was the lights in here, but it’s not. It’s too straight for that, and it doesn’t change when the shadows do. I, um. I’m pretty sure she’s got the remnants of an automail port in her leg. More bits on the back but. Yeah.”

I look at Edward, who in turn looks completely baffled. “You mean. What, exactly? She had a missing limb, and automail, once upon a time, but then she grew her leg back like a starfish?” He’s touching his automail arm, and I’m not sure he’s aware that he’s doing it.

“I don’t know,” I answer, and I really don’t. “It… It should be impossible.”

The colour has drained from Edward’s face, and he laughs at something he clearly doesn’t find funny. In a monotone voice he recites, “ _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must… be the Truth_.”


	4. What Roy Mustang Set in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fair sex is your department.

We didn’t leave Central HQ until two o’clock in the morning, and with more questions than answers. Edward didn’t elaborate on his statement about truth, though it’s clear that more meaning was implied beyond the surface inference. Mustang seemed mildly ruffled by it, where Hawkeye seemed as perplexed as me. _Edward_ seemed to regret saying it as soon as it came out of his mouth, and struck me as being embarrassed by it. He backtracked immediately and insisted we didn’t put too much thought into it, as he was probably full of shit. He said he’d give a proper explanation if there was a need for one.

I wasn’t sold, but Edward Elric is a stubborn ass. 

After one more sweep of the body, Edward and I began going over photos of the crime scene, as well as three corresponding case files wired from West City. Like Vera, all three victims were potential candidates recruited by the military to apply to the State Alchemist program. Edward was correct in his assertion that the killer was ‘improving’ with each death, but there was a bit too big a gap between West City’s latest murder and Vera’s; the accuracy was a little _too_ improved to think that one followed the other, leading us to suspect that there were a few missing fatalities. We passed our suspicions on to Colonel Mustang, who immediately began following-up (“Harassing the shit out of them, more like,” Edward had hissed to me in a half-amused undertone) with those who had been assigned, earlier in the evening, to make further inquiries.

There was evidence in each case of an alchemical battle; neither victim had given up very easily, whether it was at their apartment, in the middle of the city (in the middle of the night), or in the back parking lot of the West HQ. Edward bemoaned not being able to see the bodies, wanting a better impression of our perpetrator’s skills and/or lack thereof. The crime scene photos left much to the imagination, unfortunately; it was nearly impossible to spot traces of alchemy in them. Amazingly, given the locations of the fights and extent of the consequent damage, not one witness had come forward in West City, meaning that so far we know absolutely nothing about the killer, except that he has some sort of vendetta against State Alchemist candidates. Hopefully tomorrow will bring better news (not that I would _wish_ witnessing a murder on anyone, but still), and that someone somewhere saw what happened to Vera Biennial.

Throughout our case review, random subordinates of Mustang’s popped in and out, keeping Edward (and consequently myself, I guess) up-to-date with their progress in other areas. Most of it was minor and not really related to what we were doing, excusing the news that Vera Biennial’s apartment was completely totaled. The entire building had been evacuated during the incident, and other officers were interviewing the residents. The real turning point in the evening came when Hawkeye returned from trying to piece together the botanical alchemist’s back-story. Apparently she had lost her left leg when she was fifteen, during the Ishval Civil War, when extremists bombed Resembool in 1907. This caused both mine and Edward’s eyebrows to shoot up. Evidently Edward and his brother had grown up there. Funnily, I’d lived there as a baby, but my parents had relocated to East City early in the Ishvalan conflict. Granny moved there to take care of me when Mom and Dad were drafted into military service. They never came back, and she never left.

The news that we shared a hometown sent Edward off on a tangent of explaining sheep festivals and rolling hills of green, even suggesting that he and I make a trip there sometime so he could introduce me to the beauty of rural living. I was skeptical of his poetic waxing, particularly given where he had chosen to live as an adult (not to mention the fact that he essentially survives off of Xingese takeaway, which I doubt they have in the boonies). I let him talk, though, because it was nice to see him be passionate about something other than alchemy. Edward is no robot, but his love of where he comes from is very humanizing all the same.

***

“I. Am. So. _Tired_ ,” Edward moans as we finally make it up the stairs and into our apartment, having been dropped off moments earlier by Lieutenant Hawkeye. She looks dead on her feet too, but I’m pretty sure she’s heading back to HQ. I get the feeling she doesn’t really rest unless Mustang does too. Edward kicks off his shoes, throws his coat vaguely in the direction of the coat rack, and then flops down in his chair.

“You should probably go to b--b-bed,” I say, stifling a yawn. I shove my somewhat smelly sweater straight down the laundry chute, then half-collapse across from him in my own seat. “Or, rather, we both should,” I add idly, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Since apparently I’m your sidekick now.”

“Oh whatever,” Edward grins, resting his head back. “You’re into it. I’ve never seen someone light up that much looking at pictures of dead people. There’s probably something wrong with you.”

I snort. “Ha! You’ve never seen anyone else so wrapped up in it because you’ve never _seen yourself_ at it. And so what if I’m interested? It’s not like I’ve had much cause to be professionally involved in murder cases. It’s a new experience.”

“Yeah, but most people sitting in on their first murder investigation would have like, panic attacks, and barf or something.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“So we’re not most people.”

Edward laughs.

Mustang took the liberty of putting paperwork forward on my behalf for a leave of absence from my hospital position. He didn’t really give me a chance to protest when he announced this during mine and Edward’s crime-scene-photo-powwow, instead offering us both consulting contracts for the duration of the investigation, before instructing us to go home and get a good night’s sleep because we’d be on a train first thing in the morning. He wanted us to go to Resembool and see what we could find out about Vera Biennial magically regrowing a limb, and the history of her automail, then move on to West City to get a better impression than the case file offered for what had happened there. I’d went sort of bug-eyed when I realized the actual implications of what he was saying (it was freaking late, and I’d drank my weight in coffee by then), because despite the fact that I _was_ there, and I _was_ helping, it seemed completely ridiculous that they were putting me in league with Edward in terms of ability to assist the caseload.

I expressed this in more or less words, but Mustang assured me that my expertise was invaluable, and that besides, Edward could use all the help he could get. The man himself hadn’t seemed particularly impressed by that insistence, though I’m sure Mustang was pretty pleased with himself.

“I think they just want me to babysit you.”

Edward guffaws. His eyes are closed and he seems to be gradually melting into his armchair. “You’re smart and you’ve got an eye for this stuff. Plus they need more outside opinions. Military is too often biased, and honestly, so am I.”

I’m blushing and glad he’s not looking at me. Not quite knowing what to say or do after that, I get up and start making a pot of tea, despite it being, according to the clock on the mantel, 2:35 AM. After a few minutes of busying myself in the kitchen, I ask, “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure.”

When I come into the living room with the two cups, he’s pulled himself out of the cushioning a bit and is sitting more or less upright. He takes his from me with a “Cheers,” sniffing it before setting it down on the side table to cool. I put my own cup beside it.

After settling myself across from him again, I say, “So. We’re going to be gone for what, almost a week? What do you take with you for quests like this?”

Edward shrugs. “I dunno. Toothbrush? Journal? I don’t need a lot; I can use alchemy to clean clothes.” I scrunch up my nose, and he smiles wryly. “It works, I swear. I’m not a scumbag.”

“ _Right_ ,” is my response, and he sticks out his tongue. “Should I bring, uh. A weapon or something?”

“Why, you planning to hijack the train?”

“ _No_. I mean, we’ll be on a military inquiry, and they usually carry sidearms at least, don’t they?”

“I really don’t think you need to worry,” he says in an _almost_ reassuring way, though I’m sure he thinks I’m being a bit silly. “If something happens, I’ll fight and you’ll run.”

“Fight with what?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Gusto? I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Uh, no. Those are for killing people, not defending yourself. I use alchemy, and my fists. They’ve been effective enough for me so far.”

I glance between his automail limbs incredulously, and he rolls his eyes at me. “I don’t know how effective you’ll be when your arm and leg malfunction or fall off or something.”

“ _Gearhead_ ,” he mutters.

“Says the alchemy freak.”

“Okay, well, first of all, it’s not like we’re going to be drawing crazy attention to ourselves, we’re just playing Mustang’s lapdogs with Q and A for a couple of days. Second, if my automail fails, _how_ convenient that I’ll have a seasoned mechanic handy. Seriously. Think of it like a mini-vacation, ignoring the part where we’ll be learning more about dead people.”

I sigh and shake my head at him. “You’re off your rocker if you think I’m going to do maintenance on those pieces of shit.”

“You want a commission or not? I don’t think you can build two whole limbs in,” he looks at his watch, “the next five hours, so. The trade-off is taking care of these in the meantime. My regular mechanic is a jackass anyway.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, that, and I’m afraid you’ll murder me if I don’t let you,” he replies dryly. “I don’t want to be a statistic.”

This is elating enough to almost send me into a spastic fit. I launch myself into his lap with a squeal, pulling him into a tight, probably suffocating, hug. I’m practically vibrating. “Eee! I have _so_ many amazing ideas, Edward! I even already have a few sketches. You’re going to be a piece of _art_! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You won’t regret this, I promise!”

I’m grinning like an idiot when I pull back from my attack, and find Edward looking decidedly bewildered, his face as red as a tomato. He clears his throat and says, “Uh. You’re welcome.” We’re no closer, face-to-face-wise, than we’ve been all night, but I’m suddenly _very_ aware of my proximity to his lips, and that, with no invitation, I’m sitting on top of him with my hands behind his neck. This is probably well beyond an infringement of Roommate Personal Space, and my own cheeks start to feel hot.

I clear my throat and disentangle myself, retreating quickly back to the safety of my own chair. Now _very_ embarrassed, I pick up my tea and try to drown myself in it.

The silence becomes palpable, and we sort of stare awkwardly at one another for what feels like an eternity. It’s Edward who finally breaks it, picking up his own cup and standing, saying, “Uh. We should probably call it a night. See you in the morning.”

He disappears down the hallway. I sit and rub my temples for a good long while before I make the pilgrimage to bed myself. I don’t sleep.


	5. The Advertising of Unclear Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea such individuals exist outside of stories.

My wake up call is a heavy fist banging on my door at an ungodly hour, startling me out of nonsensical but very vivid dreams about Edward Elric’s adventures as an always-shirtless prosthesis model. I struggle up and dress slowly, groggy and half-confused, trying to remember why it’s important to put on clothes. Train. Resembool. Dead alchemists. _That's right_ , apparently I'm a detective now. By the time I’m fully dressed I’m at least something resembling conscious, and so I grab my bag (which I’d had the sense to pack before I’d went to sleep), and head out of my room.

I find Edward in the kitchen, obviously sleep-deprived and very unhappy about it. He is, unlike his dream counterpart, wearing a full set of clothes. He looks like he put them on in the dark, mind you, but that’s no different than usual, though he’s also got square-rimmed spectacles on that I’ve never seen before. I wager that now is a suicidal time to ask him about them, and so I keep my observation to myself. He hands me a bowl of soggy, sugary cereal, avoiding eye contact. I mumble a thank you and receive a grunt in response. We eat our breakfast in not-particularly-companionable silence, me leaning against the door frame in something of a daze, him rigidly committed to looking out the window. By the time we finish eating, Lieutenant Hawkeye has arrived to take us to the train station. She has also, _thank the gods_ , brought coffee.

The car ride is quiet, the tension between myself and Edward so palpable that Hawkeye, not surprisingly, notices it. She doesn’t draw attention to it, merely raises an eyebrow at me (I chose to sit in the front, away from Edward), to which I shrug. I wonder vaguely if Edward has some sort of hug or touch aversion, or that perhaps in his perception of the world I’ve done something completely and utterly horrendous. Then again, maybe not, because he strikes me as the sort of man to scream about something he’s angry about, versus bottling it up inside to stew over. Looking back, propelling myself at him maybe came across as unprofessional behavior for a potential service provider, so well as a bit forward for a new roommate/friend/ _whatever_ , but even still I feel like I’m missing something, and/or he’s overreacting. The situation is also no doubt amplified by his sleep-deprivation, and I figure that maybe once there’s caffeine is in his bloodstream he’ll thaw out a bit. (A little voice somewhere in the back of my mind suggests that he's upset because _he liked it_. I squash that voice like a spider, and pretend it never spoke out of turn.)

At the station, Hawkeye presents us with an updated copy of the casefile, and an access code for travel expenses, telling us to contact herself or the Colonel with periodic updates, preferably daily. “Though I won’t hold my breath,” she directs at Edward, who rolls his eyes. She wishes us luck and leaves us to our train, and _Hopefully_ , I think, _she’s going home to sleep_. The dark circles under her eyes make mine and Edward’s exhaustion look like a joke.

Before boarding we grab more coffee and something more substantial to eat. Getting on, getting settled, and the ticket check pass by in a blur, and shortly after I finish my bacon sandwich I find myself dozing, my head resting on the cool window. I’m not sure how much time passes, but some time after the train starts moving, and I start having egg-related daydreams, Edward finally speaks.

I come to, inhaling deeply through my nose, and blink blearily at him. Attractively, I’ve been drooling on my own shoulder. I rub at the material, and stretch and yawn, before addressing him. I wasn't alert to begin with, but I still don't want him to even entertain the possibility that I was waiting for him to move us past... _whatever the hell is going on_. Even if I was.

“Sorry, did you say something?” I hope my forced indifference isn't lacking.

He nods. He’s sitting directly across from me, half splayed on the bench. He reaches behind himself with his automail arm, scratching his upper back. “I was thinking we should look at the file, see if Mustang’s team found anything useful after we went home.”

“All right,” I agree, and reach into my bag on the floor, where I tucked the file for safe keeping. Attempting to be casual, I can tell, Edward stands and moves over to sit beside me. He’s keeping purposeful distance and avoiding touching me, and I swear I have never been this painfully aware of another human being in my entire life. If this is how we’re playing this situation, it’s going to be a _very_ long and frustrating trip.

I open the file and spread it on my lap, forcing Edward to lean in a bit.

As it turns out, a whole slew of Vera Biennial’s neighbors saw bits and pieces of the fight that lead to her death. Most of them had thought that there had been an earthquake, but had looked out their windows to see Vera raising and lowering the building’s car park as she defended herself from a large man with white hair, who was wearing a bright yellow jacket. A few witnesses closer to the fight had noted that Vera’s attacker had a large, x-shaped scar across the top of his face. Based on the combination of reports, Mustang’s team had come up with a pretty decent timeline, piecing together when the fighting started (7:30pm), and where and when it moved (most suspected that Vera had fled into the park woods adjacent the building, this around 7:40pm). There had been no more alchemical tremors, and no more witnesses, after that. A note attached to the timeline read that the military would be reaching out to the public for more information, to piece together how her body had gotten from the west side of the city to downtown, likely on foot, in a matter of, at most, an hour and twenty minutes (she was found at 9pm). An added note that Edward said was in Mustang's 'chicken scratch' read, _"Fullmetal, we found her other shoe."_

The team’s scouring had also procured two more casefiles, one in Yeuc, and one in Zaymed, of two more State Alchemist hopefuls who’d been murdered the same way. Edward and I carefully analyzed the photos in relation to the others, and the pattern of ‘Scar’s’ (this is how the murderer is referred to in subsequent information; the press in Yeuc cemented the moniker) improvements followed. These instances _had_ , unlike those in West City, witnesses, all who reported the same thing: A large, white haired man in a yellow jacket, with an expansive, x-shaped scar on his face, who aggressively attacked those who ended up found dead. These reports also said that he had a darker complexion, and that he wore sunglasses, day or night.

Though we had put two and two together of how the murders were carried out, a witness in Zaymed had seen it happen, and his description of the event made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end: _"[Scar] had had [the victim] pinned up against a wall by his throat. [The victim] was struggling, shaking, trying to get loose, but [Scar]'s grip was just. Well. He wasn’t going anywhere. I don’t know why [Scar] didn’t… I mean, [Scar] could’ve just choked [the victim] to death, but… but [Scar] put his hand on [the victim’s] face, and he_ screamed _, just this bloodcurdling scream, and there was this blue lightning, and... What was left of [the victim] slumped to the ground, and the wall was… It was red. It was really red. I wanted to do something, to--to stop [Scar], but. I didn't have a weapon, and I. I was sure [Scar]'d kill me too."_

“That guy’s going to spend the rest of his life in therapy,” I say sadly, thinking of the previous night when we were in such desperate need of witnesses. Like I said then, I wouldn’t _wish_ witnessing a murder on anyone, but because this poor man _had_ seen it, we knew more specifics about Scar’s MO. I guess stuff like that is just a casualty of living in a world spattered with psychopaths.

Edward doesn’t say anything, though he shifts uncomfortably. We move on to the next page.

The new pictures don’t tell us anything we don’t already know. Beyond the obvious connection that the alchemists share, there’s nothing else linking them together. They vary in ages and skill sets and specializations. They were men and women. They fought for their lives, and lost.

There’s no new information about Vera Biennial’s leg, either, beyond her autopsy confirming that there was, indeed, a partial automail port embedded in her thigh.

“How,” Edward asks as I close the file up and set it back in my bag, “were you so sure that it was an automail port and not… shrapnel, or something?”

“The shape and the position, and the minor scarring,” I answer, tracing the mirrored position on my own left leg. Whoever had done her port did an amazing job. I think they probably had to cut back from where the original injury actually was in order to do the automail, and so the line is smooth and practically perfect. That’s what actually caught my attention. It was this straight, little, flawless defect. Based on that, the hardness at the top, and how the loose bits at the back felt…” I shrug. “It just made sense.”

“I didn’t see the scar at all.”

“Well why would you have? It’s not like you were on the lookout for it, you were looking for signs of a fight more than anything. And besides, what could old scars tell you, _really_ , about what had happened to her? This is a complete anomaly, and it might not have anything to do with her death anyway. I mean, maybe that was going to be her exam thing, maybe she figured out how to regrow limbs with her plants or something.”

“If she managed that, don’t you think she would’ve had the port removed before experimenting on herself?” Edward was rubbing absently at his own arm again.

“That’s incredibly painful and expensive to do, so I doubt it. She probably figured that she could just have it removed after the fact, and took the chance.”

“If that’s the case, I hope her alchemy notes can be decoded. A discovery like that could change the world.” _And help you_ , I think. I smile at his _almost_ hopeful tone.

“Best way I can think of to be put out of a job.”

Edward laughs.

Sometime after lunch and some aimless chatting, I finally decide to ask him again about his ominous ‘truth’ comment. He is very hesitant, his cheeks flaming, and tries to change the subject several times, to no avail. I hold my ground, especially because I’m willing to bet that Mustang offered his interpretation of Edward’s statement to his team as a lead to pursue. I don’t want to be the only person in this investigation in the dark.

“Ugh, seriously?” he asks, and I nod, smiling in a self-satisfied sort of way. He's practiced in avoidance tactics, and chooses this moment to take off his glasses and start cleaning them, _thoroughly_ , with his shirt. I stare, accusatory, until he gets agitated and can't ignore me anymore. “ _For fuck's sake_. It’s pretty much my life story, you _really_ sure you want to hear this bullshit?”

“It’ll take your life story to explain the meaning of one phrase?” I question, surprised. His jaw is set, and he looks torn between _wanting_ to tell me, and wanting to punch and/or throw himself out the window. He waves his hand in a dismissive way, resigned, if annoyed, then puts his glasses back on his face. I make a mental note to bug him about his eyesight at a different time. “Good thing it’s a nice, long train ride, then.”

He blows his bangs out of his face, crossing his arms. I’m not sure if he’s half as put out as he’s pretending to be. I turn and settle my back against the window, hugging my knees to my chest, expectant. He tells me to stop looking so giddy, and I smirk in response. Getting under his skin is an incredibly enjoyable pastime.

When he finally starts, he shifts closer to me almost conspiratorially, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “Well,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “It starts and ends with trying to defy God, and the moral is that, if you're going to play that game, you're going to lose.”

I’ll give him one thing: Edward Elric knows how to get your attention.


	6. What the Truth Can Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.

_A long enough time ago, there was a selfish man who pretended to be a good father and husband, who left home one night without offering his two sons a goodbye or explanation. (His shadow stayed behind to haunt his family. Slowly, but surely, it broke their hearts.)_

_A weight of responsibility beyond his years shifted to the elder of the brothers, and it didn’t take very long for him to resent his father’s absence, even if he didn’t understand it. He became fiercely protective of his mother, rage bubbling at the surface whenever he saw that distant, longing look on her face. He could never forgive his father for that obvious hurt, and vowed (with, then, almost comical ferocity) to make her smile as often as he could to make up for him. The younger brother, too, felt that his own level of personal contentment was reliant on his mother’s happiness, though he remained naive and idealistic, clinging with blind, misplaced trust to the idea that his family would soon be whole again. Many sentences started or ended with ‘when Dad comes back.’ The older brother started setting his jaw and grinding his teeth, to stop himself from cringing._

_The brothers were frequently assured that, though he had left, their father loved them very much and would be back as soon as he could be. The more time that passed, however, the less believable these statements became (even, admittedly, for the younger brother), and the more halfheartedly they were relayed. As much as their mother tried to put on a brave face for her sons, the lingering sadness in her tone and body language was, unfortunately, noxious._

_The boys took responsibility for their mother’s happiness upon themselves, determined to prove to both themselves and her that they were good, and strong, and that she could be whole_ with _them, without_ him _. Their passion and commitment, combined with their superfluous intelligence and natural affinity for alchemy, made the brothers ambitious and undeterrable self-starters. Determination to improve was accelerated by every smile she rewarded them with. This mixed with self-awareness of their capabilities lead them to believe that they were invincible._

 _They were, of course,_ not _._

 _Some years after their father left, an illness passed through the country. It took their mother away, though she, unlike_ him _, did not have the choice to stay, or to come back. The boys were left alone. No one could find their father. In the meantime, they were passed from supper table to supper table, their small town neighbors coming together to ensure their well-being until their absentee parent could be tracked down and held accountable._ It wasn’t their fault that he wasn’t there. _The boys were barraged with the sympathies of bleeding hearts and good intentions. Thank yous became as exhausting as they were perfunctory._

 _The brothers started spending the majority of their time outside of school alone together. They stopped playing with other children. They stopped paying attention in class. People fretted over them, as people do, but the boys had long since stopped caring. Their father wasn’t coming to get them, so all they had left was one another. Beyond that, only one thing,_ one person _, had ever really mattered. So with single-minded determination, in the quiet of their parent-less home, they studied human transmutation._

_To hell with the taboo. Repercussions didn’t matter so long as they got their mother back._

***

Edward is not overly detailed in the retelling of his life story, but every word seems carefully chosen, as well as drenched in emotions I think he’d rather forget. He does not make much in the way of eye contact, choosing instead to focus on his mismatched hands, the floor, and distant points outside the window. He speaks as delicately as one would expect Edward Elric to manage, and there is a little shame there, but mostly underlying sadness. I don’t think that he feels sorry for himself, or even that the shame stems from his actions rather than their consequences. Whatever has happened since his mother died, though, I just don’t think he’s forgiven himself yet.

“Human transmutation costs you _an arm and a leg_ ,” he says with dry, humorless sarcasm, stretching out his automail arm and surveying it. “It nearly cost me Al, too. The initial rebound took his body and my leg. I had to sacrifice my arm to bind his soul to a suit of my father’s vintage armor.”

I blink in surprise. “You mean. He wasn’t _wearing_ armor when you guys were younger? That was actually empty, sentient armor?”

He nods, and I hug my knees closer.

“I still don’t really know if I did him a favor or not, or if it was just selfish of me to keep him here that way. I didn’t want to be by myself, not after... Everything. But. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t _feel_. I got very… engrossed by the idea of getting him back to normal. That’s why I got automail. It’s why I became a State Alchemist. The light from the rebound was reported to Central and so Mustang paid us a visit. He and Hawkeye set me up with an automail mechanic, and recruited me at the same time.” He shrugs, then takes a deep breath. “I traded in my fixation on bringing mom back with the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“I thought that that was a myth.”

He shakes his head. “No. We found it.” He’s quiet for a few minutes, reflecting, and I struggle not to breathe too loudly, never mind not say anything. “When. When we did the initial transmutation, it took us to the Gate. It’s. Alchemical knowledge of the world, what you already have, what you have the potential to tap into, and what you’ll never manage. It's the closest thing I can imagine as the passageway to heaven, I guess. Truth guards the Gate. You can’t negotiate with Truth. Truth isn’t cruel, either; it’s just the way things are. It’s _equivalent exchange_. I don’t know if he’s God, or if he’s just a reflection of our personal humanity. I can’t really decide.” He smiles, sadly. “But. Well. Committing a taboo, that meant paying a price. Al and I had nothing to offer but our flesh and bones. Besides, when you. When I think about it now, there’s nothing that-- nothing that could equal the value of someone’s soul.”

Based on the beginning of his story and his disdain for those who felt compelled to pass on hollow, seemingly impersonal empathy, I continued to keep my mouth shut. I very much wanted to say, ‘ _You poor boys_ ,’ or ‘ _How terrible_ ,’ but I didn’t doubt for a moment that if Edward had heard either statement once, he’d heard them a thousand times. Instead I shift in my seat, putting my legs on the floor and inching closer to him before taking his flesh hand in mine.

He tenses a little, but lets me. I intertwine our fingers.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he says quietly, though I’m not sure if he’s actually looking for an answer. “I barely even know you.”

I squeeze his hand. “I know I was teasing you earlier, but seriously, I’m just a nosy brat.” I give him a genuine smile. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, Edward.”

He angles his head in my direction, still avoiding my eyes. “I know,” he says, and starts drumming his metal fingers on the seat. He pushes on. “Before. Before we tried to bring Mom back, we studied with an alchemy teacher. She tried to teach us that ‘ _all is one, and one is all_ ’, which we took at face value then, not to heart. We weren't afraid of death, but we also didn’t understand it. Everything we were doing then was a means to an end. Truth is all. Truth is one.” He sighs. “As it turns out, Teacher had tried to bring a baby she’d lost back to life. Truth mangled her insides so she could never have one again.”

I gasp.

“Knowing that, I feel like Al and I really got off easy,” Edward says, and then hesitates a moment before continuing. “When-- When we found the stone, I used it to bring back Al’s body without… without really talking to him about it. We were still trying to figure out exactly how it was made, the source of its power. It was another instance where the repercussions were completely beyond us. Al had learned, I guess, from Teacher, and from our first mistake. I just didn’t care. I thought that if I brought him back then the world would become something resembling normal again.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

We sit in silence for a little while, watching the scenery whiz by. I shift myself on the seat again, leaning my head on his shoulder without any intent or implications, which I think he knows. Sometimes you just need to be close to someone else. I may not be a substitute or solution, but I _am_ something real and solid that he can anchor himself to for a little while.

“So. _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the Truth_ ,” he says finally, quietly.

“You think Vera made it to the Gate?”

“I don’t know. If she did then what did she use as payment? If it wasn’t anything concrete, then what did she lose? Maybe you’re right and she just found the answer through her research.”

“Well, if that's--”

Suddenly the world stops making sense. There’s a loud **BANG** as the roof of the train car concaves, a fist unbelievably pushing it’s way through the metal before peeling it back like we’re sardines in a tin can. The lights are flickering and other passengers start screaming as blue streaks of what I can only describe as lightning reverberate around us. People start stampeding toward the exits. Edward is on his feet and claps his hands together before equipping his automail arm with a giant blade. I push myself as far back against the window as I can manage.

“Winry! Get up! _Run_!” Edward growls in my direction, but shock keeps me frozen in place.

A giant man jumps down from the roof, and the car shakes as his feet hit the floor. He is well over six-feet in height, with dark skin and white hair. He’s wearing a bright yellow jacket. It’s splattered with copious amounts of dry blood and dirt, as is the rest of him. His face is determinedly set, his sunglasses contrasting this oddly.

“ _Winry_!” Edward shouts again. “Get the hell out of here!”

“Are you Edward Elric?” Scar asks, for this is unquestionably the serial killer we've been investigating, his tone solemn with intrinsic animosity.

“What if I am!?” Edward shouts back, the dare implied.

“You were the Fullmetal Alchemist. You served to further the ambiguous morals of the Amestrian military _as their dog_. Foolish alchemists who have turned their back to God will be punished.”

“Fucking _try me_ ,” Edward answers,taking a fighting stance.

“Oh _shit_ ,” I manage, and scramble to my feet. The window tells me that we’re over a gorge, and I realize I’ve likely wasted my opportunity to not be a casualty of whatever it is that’s about to happen. I hope that the other passengers have made it far, far away.

Scar rushes forward with an outstretched hand, which Edward dodges, barrel rolling out past him and out of the line of fire, into the walk path. I begin climbing backward over the seats, toward the door to the next carriage. Edward pops back up on one knee and lunges toward Scar with clear intent to impale him. Scar manages to grab Edward bodily around the middle, and throws him to the floor. In one swift move Scar’s knee is in Edward’s gut. He reaches down, splaying his hand against Edward’s face, lowering his sunglasses with the opposite hand, revealing bright, red eyes.

 _An Ishvalan_.

“Now you perish,” he says, and I hear myself screaming.

In a flash my body is being hurled sideways and I crash roughly against a window. I’m thrown back again, the air static with the repeated use of alchemy, and I try to grab onto a seat. Then, all the windows explode, and I feel glass embed itself in me _everywhere_. I’m reminded of Vera Biennial and I want to ask Scar if he had said the same thing to her that he just had to Edward. I wonder if Edward and I are doomed to the same fate as her, if we’re moments away from becoming another casefile. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. The second I get my fingers dug firmly into a cushion, the car shakes, and I realize that Edward has transmuted the floor into a fist, which has Scar pinned against what’s left of the roof.

The train itself abruptly halts. They've put on the emergency brake.

“Winry!” Edward calls out, winded, making his way toward me, arm outstretched.

“Edward!” I answer back helplessly. Wind is whipping through the car, and my hair is billowing around me, trying to blind me. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do.

There’s a loud _crack_ as Edward’s alchemic fist explodes, debris hurtling around the car. A chunk catches me square in the head and I hear Edward swearing. Scar is nothing if not persistent and pitches himself forward again, emitting a strangled cry. Edward eludes him, _barely_ , as I realize that blood is trickling down my face.

“Winry, hang on!” Edward shouts, and I clamp down on the ugly, blue fabric seat for dear life. With a clap Edward completely destroys the floor, plus a good chunk of the wall, hurtling another fist in Scar’s direction. The resulting tremor loosens my tenure. I desperately try, and fail, to fix my hold.

Scar retaliates, demolishing Edward’s creation, and the explosion rocks us all. What was left of my grip is decimated and I lose control over the direction my body is moving. I slam face-first, _hard_ , into the wall, and then roll. The world around me starts moving in slow motion. I see the look of terror on Edward’s face as the broken edge of window scrapes my lower back. I gasp and lurch backward, and then I’m gone.

The air doesn't catch me.


	7. Light in the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.

The rain was staving off, thankfully, and so Roy Mustang wasn’t feeling next to useless. He was actually feeling pretty damn good.

He hadn’t slept for a solid 27 hours, and was running purely on the combination of willpower and caffeine, but yes, altogether his team (in addition to their productive all-nighter) had had a productive morning. They’d been successfully rounding up the remaining applicants for the State Alchemist exam to put under protective custody, plus they’d been wired one more casefile from a death in Heug. It was post the West City three, but before Yeuc and Zaymed. That brought their scar-faced serial killer’s body count to seven. That discovery was not particularly heartening, nor could it be considered an accomplishment, but they knew more, which meant that they were closer to stopping him. What they didn’t know was the _why_ , and it was slowly but surely (particularly paired with the lack of sleep) making Roy mental. The 'Hero' of Ishval understood all to well the destructive force of military-backed alchemy. _Why not try to kill me?_ he wondered. What could this ‘Scar’ claim as a justification for murdering those who hadn’t yet had a chance to make their mark, good or bad, on the world? Punishment (if you indulged the idea, for a moment, that that was what this was meant to be) was for sin. This seemed like something else.

Roy wasn’t sure that Edward and Winry’s trip to Resembool would offer anything, though he was very curious to know exactly how Vera Biennial had managed to regrow a missing limb. Even if that ended up being a useless foray where the case was concerned, an explanation that didn’t involve _Truth_ , as he suspected Ed believed it did, could be the alchemic mother load. He hadn’t been to the Gate himself (you couldn't pay Roy enough to pull a stunt like that) but had heard enough about it from Fullmetal and his kid brother. The heavy double-meaning in Edward’s statement the night before definitely had some merit; after all, if regeneration through alchemy, in any capacity, was possible, wouldn’t the child genius dream team of Edward and Alphonse Elric have been able to figure it out? Returning Al’s body and restoring Ed’s limbs had been what they ate, slept and breathed (excused the fact that Al hadn’t _in point of fact_ done either) for five straight years. If they could manage what seemed the more impossible of the two… well. All in all, there wasn’t much that seemed particularly impossible anymore.

Roy hadn’t realized he’d been dozing, but was startled back to reality by someone impatiently poking his face with the filtered end of a cigarette. It was, naturally, Second Lieutenant Havoc, the only person on his team with a death wish and severe lack of boundaries. He was also guaranteed, outside of Hawkeye, to be the only person who could, literally and figuratively, poke the Flame Alchemist without ending up extra crispy. “ _Jean_ ,” Roy said warningly, catching the butt between two fingers and crushing it. 

“ _Colonel_ ,” Havoc answered gamely. “You’ll send me all a flutter, using my given name instead of my rank. You better be careful with that favoritism, sir; I wouldn’t want to make the other boys jealous, or have your professionalism questioned.”

Behind him the ‘other boys’ (Sergeant Kain Fuery, Warrant Officer Vato Falman, and Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda) collectively rolled their eyes.

“Did you do that solely to test my patience, or do you have a bet going?” Roy asked. He could feel the vein in his forehead starting to throb.

Havoc grinned. “Put a line into Rebecca Catalina, in East City. She told me some interesting things about a Mad Master Alchemist, living in the woods, terrorizing the local population, generally being an uncivilized loony.”

Havoc paused. Roy gave him as exasperated a look as he could manage. “ _And_?”

“ _And_ , being considered, you know, barmy, and also a reclusive social pariah, it was rare that he’d take on a student. Except the one time he did.”

Roy blinked. “Biennial?”

“Bingo! Turns out he lashes out at anyone who comes near his hidey-hole in the forest because the _plants_ themselves are his research. Guess what his name is. _Go on_. Christ I wish Elric were here, I’d lord this over him for hours.”

“What’s his name, Havoc?”

The second lieutenant’s grin grew impossibly wider. “What, not even one guess? Aw, c’mon Colonel, indulge me!” Roy glared. Havoc made a long, melodramatic face. “Pish. Spoilsport! It’s Audun Rache. That’s _R-A-C-H-E_ , ya get me?”

Roy could've jumped straight out of his chair and kissed Havoc square on the mouth.

“Fuery! See if you can get a hold of Fullmetal before they’re out of Resembool. Get him and Rockbell to double back to East City, screw West. _Falman_!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Pack a bag and get out to West City ASAP.”

“Yes, sir!” Falman and Fuery passed whatever it was they were working on to Breda (who sighed impatiently, mumbling something about getting stuck with the shit jobs), and were out the door.

It would be great to have Fullmetal’s input on the West City cases, but given the time that had passed since the murders, Roy doubted that he’d been able to get anything more out of the crime scenes and remnants than he’d gotten from the photos. To get a good feel for Audun Rache’s politics though, and his research, Roy _needed_ a seasoned alchemist. He couldn’t go himself, but sending Edward Elric was as good if not a better alternative.

“I should be given a pay raise for my ingenuity,” Havoc was saying, emptying his arms onto Roy’s desk, which were full of Rache-related, Military documented information. By the looks of it they’d tried to recruit him several times.

Roy snorted. “I’m not lobbying for a pay raise for you just because you accidentally stumbled onto something useful while using the military’s time and phone line to _flirt_ with Rebecca Catalina.”

A retort about Roy doing the same thing on regular basis was hanging on Havoc’s lips like his latest cigarette, but was forgotten the moment Riza Hawkeye came into the room. She was a picture of military decorum, rigid and purposeful as usual, but her eyes betrayed her.

“Another murder?” Roy asked immediately, rising from his seat.

“No, sir,” she said, shaking her head. “Just came in on the wire. The 6:50 to Resembool had to do an emergency stop just outside of Haog, when the train came under attack.”

“Attack?”

“Yes, sir. From a bloodied man in a yellow jacket, with white hair, dark skin, and an x-shaped scar on his face. He ripped apart a train car.”

Roy paled. “Fullmetal?”

“Last seen jumping into Amswich Gulch after a woman with blond hair, sir.”

***

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_!” a voice rages quietly. It seems very far away, and sounds very familiar.

I come to with a jerk and immediately choke on water. I lurch upwards and vomit it up, some on the ground but most of it on myself, and my breakfast soon follows it. The world around me immediately swims, I see spots, and I fall backward onto the ground, gasping for air.

The sun above me is bright and I squint against it as I hack, dimly registering that outside of struggling to breathe, I’m wet, cold, and what feels like a cataclysmic tornado is tunneling around in my head. I have a vague recollection of falling, and of crashing into something neither hard nor soft, and of someone screaming my name.

“Holy hell, Winry, you nearly gave me heart failure.”

“Edward?” I ask. It comes out meek, hesitant, and quiet. My hand trembles as I bring it up and wipe it across my mouth.

I slowly pull myself into a sitting position, though my head is muddled so badly I can’t quite get myself all the way upright. I prop myself back on my elbows, still gulping for air as I try to take in my surroundings. It looks like we’re in a clump of old growth at the edge of a small, quickly moving river. To my left (facing the water), the bridge, with the train still on it, is a pinprick in the distance. Edward is to my right. He’s close, angled in and watching me carefully, and I realize (based mostly on the vomiting) that he was very likely just doing mouth-to-mouth on me. He’s dripping wet, pale as a sheet, his blond hair plastered to his face. He’s bruised and bloodied, has lost his glasses, and his jumper is nearly ripped to shreds. He looks like he’s aged 10 years since breakfast, and maybe he has.

“Where--? I. What happened? The last thing I remember is falling out the window.”

Edward shrugs, and, alarm fading a little, he falls back on the ground on his ass. He groans. “I had to jump out after you. The water was too shallow, you would’ve never--” He clears his throat. “I, uh. I transmuted what was left of the train car into a slide and managed to catch you in time. Or, well. The slide caught you, I didn’t. I think it knocked you unconscious. Unless you’d already passed out from the, you know. Banging around and shit.”

I shake my head. “No, I remember landing.” I look around again. The tingly numbing from nearly drowning is wearing off and I’m quickly becoming aware of pain in my face, body and back. “How’d we end up all the way down here?” I consider suggesting we start moving back to the train, but I’m not entirely sure I’m able to stand up.

“You beat me into the water. It’s shallow, but it’s moving fast,” he said, gesturing to the river. “It took a while for me to swim to you, and longer still to get over here and out of the damn thing.”

“Was your automail dragging you down?” Given the weight of metal prosthesis, people like Edward generally aren’t capable swimmers. Honestly, given the model he wears, I’m really impressed that he and I are alive.

“Uh. Well, no. But it wasn’t helping.” He pulls up the shreds of left pant leg to reveal his very nearly completely destroyed automail. I grimace, thankful that it’s not mine though I still fight the urge to berate him for it’s condition. “Scar caught hold of me as I was going after you. He was prepared I guess? For the leg being metal, I mean. He crushed it just as I was transmutting the car. There's not enough pieces left to turn it into anything more or less useful than it already is. Anyway. I’m not as adept at swimming one-legged as I’d like to be.” He tries for a grin, but sort of grimaces instead. _In pain_ , I think.

“I can’t believe you-- you _saved_ me like that,” I say, suddenly very astounded by the facts of the day. Edward had been fighting for his life against an overzealous and _very_ menacing enemy who had already successfully murdered at least six people, but he’d still managed to stop me from falling to my death, and then had saved me from drowning. We were alive in spite of a galvanic, homicidal screwball. It was especially amazing considering Edward had dealt with everything on his own since I had been a) too stupid to get out of the car when the bullshit started, and b) had had no way to fight back or save myself after that. “Thank you. _So_ much.”

He shrugs again, cheeks going red. It’s nice to see some colour back in them. “S’nothing.”

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” I argue, on principle if not for anything else. “He was trying to kill you and you just, you caught me and swam after me with _one leg_ and managed to get us out of the water. Then you saved me again. That’s three times in one day. Seriously.”

“I probably wouldn’t have had to save you from drowning if it hadn’t take me so damn long to get out of the water,” he argues, I think just because he can. I’m making him uncomfortable and despite the pain I’m in, and ignoring the fact that we’re going to struggle like hell to get anywhere, I’m enjoying myself.

I smile at him. “Oh, take the compliment and be my hero for the day,” I say genuinely, because I mean it. Then, just because it’s Edward, I add, “Your ego has to have deflated a _little_ since you retired, right? I wouldn’t want it to totally deprived.”

He grunts, but there’s a shade of a smile on his lips. “Well you can pay back your life debt or whatever by helping me limp back toward the train. They’re not going to move it until the Military gets out and combs the place, and they’ll be looking for us.”

Nodding in agreement I endeavor to get on my feet. It’s a slow process. I’m wobbly, very light-headed, and a once-over my body shows that I’ve bled quite a lot. Bruises are blooming all over me, and I smell like trout and vomit. I scrunch up my nose, then pull off my sweater. I turn it inside out and tie it around my waist. I watch Edward take off what's left of his own sweater, but he leaves it on the ground. It's not salvageable. “A bath and a bed are going to be amazing after this,” I say as I reach out and help Edward (who smiles longingly at the idea of being clean, and of sleeping) to his feet. It takes two tries, because he’s bigger than me, and also heavier than he looks. Consequence of metal body parts, I guess. I would like to take what’s left of his leg off the port, but I don’t have any tools. It doesn’t seem to be responding at all, but, (after he slings an arm over my shoulders and I get one of mine around his back) after we get going, I realize he’s using it to balance a bit, so all his weight is not on me.

“What happened to Scar?” I ask. We make slow progress.

“I dunno,” Edward answers. “He didn’t jump out after us or follow us, least not the same way we went down ourselves. He might have gotten out another way.”

“So he could still be coming after you.”

“Yeah. Dunno if he will. There’ll be a lot of soldiers around, and fast. Guess we have to hope he’s not finished with his manifesto and doesn’t want to risk being caught yet.”

I’m quiet for a moment. “He’ll probably try again, though. Either way.”

“Yeah,” Edward says, wincing. We pause and re-shift our weight before hobbling forward again. “Probably.”

It’s hard to tell if he’s terrified, or resigned.


	8. On the Sofa, Half in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little things are infinitely the most important.

By the time the Military finds us, we're about halfway to the bridge. We’d had to stop six times, and it had taken us nearly three hours to get as far as we’d managed. Bodily I was in no shape to be half-dragging Edward through the forest, no more than he was in any shape to be putting as little weight on me as he had been. We were both over-tired, dehydrated, and bleeding, and near collapsed out of joy when we spotted the Amestrian blue wool coming through the trees toward us. They tended to our more superficial wounds on site, and then packed us into separate vehicles, sending us to the hospital in Awrosut. They’d recovered our luggage from the train (including my tool kit), and sent it along with us.

There was still no sign of Scar.

We were escorted by what was practically a fleet of soldiers, many of whom remained behind at the hospital, covering off most entrances from the ground floor up (they began dissipating throughout the day, the less likely it became that Scar was nearby). At some point when I was getting what felt like a whole damn window pane’s worth of glass pulled out of my body, a young, female soldier stopped by to tell me that Edward had spoken to Colonel Mustang, and that we would both be discharged from the hospital once we were all cleaned and patched up. We were to be situated in the barracks for the time being. She also handed me a commission from the Colonel for the rebuilding of Edward’s leg, and for the maintenance of his arm. I gave her a list of materials I would need, and a time quote--four days at least, I needed to sleep tonight--and she left to pass it on.

Some of the gashes from the glass embedding itself were quite deep and required stitches, and my back is bandaged to high Heaven from scraping it as I fell. Feeling much like a bruised rag-doll (not to mention sun-burnt from our hobble through the forest), and smelling like antiseptic and iodine, I limp uncomfortably into the hallway after getting the all-clear, and am taken to where Edward is apparently waiting for me.

He looks a hell of a lot better than I feel, and it’s something of a relief. They’ve outfitted him with a temporary prosthetic, and so he’s moving along on his own, if a bit lopsidedly (I think it’s about an inch and a half too short to accommodate his height). His nose and cheeks are burnt, so well as his forearms, and he’s pulled his hair back into a plait reminiscent of his days as the Fullmetal Alchemist. Like me he’s still in his ripped and dirty clothing, and he looks about ready to collapse into an exhausted heap.

Sympathetic and glad to see him relatively whole and definitely Not Dead, I give him a genuine if tired smile. “I could sleep for a year,” I say.

“Tell me about it,” he answers, and he’s smiling too. “Apparently they’re putting us up for a week? We’ve got to hold up here until they can get someone to replace my leg.”

“Yeah, Mustang’s already sent me the work brevet,” I reply, and we fall in beside one another before making our way to the exit. It’s nearly as slow going as our plight through the woods. “They’re getting me the materials and I’ll start tomorrow.”

Edward scowls. “That bastard doesn’t need to pay my commissions for me.”

I shrug. Or, well, I awkwardly roll my shoulders in a shrugging sort of motion. “Hey, you broke it on military time, fighting a serial killer they’ve hired you to help catch, so they might as well. The least they owe you after that insanity is a bit of contract compensation. Me too,” I added, pulling the paperwork out of my pocket and handing it to him. “They’ve given me an unlimited budget. Lucky for you I’m not in the habit of melodramatizing necessity. A lesser mechanic would fit you for sixteen canons with a blank cheque like that.”

To this, Edward snorts. We’ve made it to the stairwell and are easing ourselves down, each bracing our bodies on opposite sides of the wall. Thankfully I’ve got the railing. “Hey now, that could come in handy next time a human can-opener throws everything but the kitchen sink at me on a train.”

I laugh. Surrounded by military blues, it’s easier to laugh at the absurdity of the situation than to preoccupy myself with the fear it actually inspires. (Really, though, what have I gotten myself into?) “I think alchemy is good for making canons moot. You can transmute whatever you like into a projectile, after all.”

From there, to the car, to the barracks, it’s general and mostly mindless conversation. We’re informed that we’ve been assigned a two-person guard for the duration of our stay, and that they’ll meet us at our rooms. Edward tells me that, as soon as I’m done building his leg, we’re to abandon the Resembool trip and backtrack to East City; that Mustang’s found Biennial’s alchemy master, and that he’s something resembling nuts. Everything else'll be taken care of by the rest of his team. We talk about the transmuted paper Biennial’d been found with, that had had Rache's name on it, making unlikely guesses as to why, in her dying moments, she’d directed the Military to _him_. (Edward had, last night at Central HQ, talked at length about the transmutation marks themselves, and how they had been hasty and panicked and had seemed so _desperate_.) We joke about walking to East City instead of taking another train, or of taking a car, and tease one another about our likely equally terrible driving abilities.

At the barracks we’re introduced to Second Lieutenant Maria Ross and Sergeant Denny Brosh, who have been sent out from Central specifically per Mustang to keep eyes on us. Edward already knows them and the three spend a few moments catching up before Ross and Brosh show us where we’re staying.

Two bedrooms join on to a shared living space, sparse with a sofa and two chairs, a table set, two ugly lamps, and military-related artwork all over the walls. Dinner is already waiting for us, though from here on out we’ll be eating in the dining hall. The bathroom we'd passed at the end of the hall, shared for the floor, after coming up the stairs.

Edward plops down in a seat at the table, making a satisfied sound at getting off of his feet. He rubs at the stump of his leg and detaches the prosthetic. Turning into the food, he wastes no time digging in. Taking his lead, I follow suit. Ross and Brosh wish us a good evening and let us know to call them if we need anything, then excuse themselves to their vigil in the hall. Edward and I barely hear or acknowledge them as we mow down on the proffered dinner, both in desperate need of refueling after such a harried, ridiculous day. We proceed to ignore one another as well, single-minded, until we’re completely and utterly sated.

Edward reattaches his leg and excuses himself for a shower. I pack up what few leftovers there are, and then go to get myself sorted. By the time Edward’s done, I’m ready for a shower of my own. It takes me a little longer given the ridiculous amount of sewn and exposed wounds I have, but it’s refreshing and soothing all the same.

Some time later we say our good nights, and I’m dead to the world the second my head hits the pillow.

***

At about 3 a.m., I bolt upright in a panic and I don’t know why.

I struggle to calm my breathing, looking wildly around the room for whatever it was that woke me. It’s empty save for the furniture and the shadows. My lungs feel full and I’m shaking, and I remember with a start that I was dreaming about Scar’s attack, about the fall. The breeze circling in through the cracked-open window catches on the beads of sweat on my skin, and involuntarily I shiver. Pushing aside the blankets I creep out of bed, slowly, making my way to the door to the shared living space. I crack it open and look inside.

One lamp is on and Edward is seated on the sofa, reading a book. Hearing the door open he turns and looks in my direction, an unreadable expression on his face. “Couldn’t sleep?" I nod. "Me either.”

I sidle into the room, shutting the bedroom door behind me. He shifts on the sofa to make room for me, patting the cushion with his automail arm.

He’s wearing pajama pants and no shirt, hair down. He’s taken off his temporary prosthetic again, his flesh leg tucked up and under him. I’ve never seen him shirtless before, and am suddenly very conscious of my own rather short sleep shorts, and tank top. I sit beside him, tucking both my legs up like his then run a hand through my hair. Trying hard not to be obtrusive I make note of the scars on his chest and upper arms. There’s quite a few, including a large one on his abdomen that’s about the size of his fist. I make a mental note to ask him about them another time.

Edward sets his book down. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, looking away from his concerned expression, focusing on my hands. “Just dreaming about it.”

“Fair enough. It was pretty damn terrifying,” Edward replies. “I think I’d be more surprised if you slept like a baby, honestly.”

“How did--” I start, then swallow, and I bring my eyes back up to meet his. “I mean, you must have gone through a lot of terrible things, back when you and your brother were, you know. Doing what you were doing. How did you, um. How’d you deal with it?”

Edward shrugs, then he grins. “I got to punch stuff.”

I snort, and a smile starts to spread across my face.

“I had Al,” he continues a little more soberly, and to my surprise, reaches over and lightly places his hand over mine. He looks embarrassed, a blush spreading across his sun-burnt cheeks. “It, um. Helps to have someone. To talk to, so. I’m. I’m not _great_ at this kind of thing, but, uh. You can talk to me. If you want.”

This is such a contrast from the shithead attitude I’m used to--this self-conscious and more vulnerable Edward Elric--that I’m almost inclined to laugh. But it’s too sweet. _He’s_ too sweet. I feel heat rising in my own face, and I bite my bottom lip, my smile growing at his obvious sincerity. “ _Thank you_ ,” I say, genuinely grateful. I don’t know the real extent of what this Consulting Idiot has gotten me into, but I think that, at this point, I’d go anywhere and do anything to have him keep holding my hand. “I’ve said that a lot today.”

His cheeks go impossibly redder. “S’nothing,” he says, echoing himself from earlier in the day.

“You’re still my hero for today,” I say softly. He's leaning in, and so am I.

I see him swallow and wonder if his mouth is as dry as mine. “It’s, uh. It’s technically tomorrow.”

I laugh. “That’s okay,” I say. “You can be my hero tomorrow too.”

“Okay.”

He leans in and kisses me.


	9. The Divine Judgement of Ishvala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A complex mind. All great criminals have that.

Ishvala help him.

He hated the Amestrian cities. The congestion and frivolity, the seeming grandeur of “Utopia” which served to do nothing but mask the prevalent industrialism, that the country was a dictatorship, and that the poverty gap was, in too many cases, extreme. The people couldn’t see through the fog, couldn’t see just how shallow and blind their carelessness was, couldn’t see their own indifference, couldn't see through all the lies they told themselves. They were conditioned by ignorance. They kept on, indulging in the facade, and oh, were they ever so _wasteful_. So wasteful that there were garbage bins in every park and public space, so that if you did not see one you had only to walk six feet in either direction to find one. There were _herds_ of bins behind businesses filled with wasted food, discarded property, with _everything_ and _anything_. A sensible man could build a good life on the refuse from others in Amestrian metropolises, and particularly in Central City. He himself had not wanted for sustenance while on his mission. In smaller towns and villages the waste was on a much smaller scale, but it was there. Being raised, as he had been, to understand and respect the severity of his holy land, and of the goodness Ishvala provided--what you _needed_ to live a good life, not whatever petty idiocies and ludicrous indulgences served for passing fancy--to respect the ebb and flow of life; never to abuse, or to take more than was necessary. His respect for the world was so great that it sometimes felt daunting. He supposed that some men must shoulder more to make up for the lack of respect shown by so many others, by _most_ who believed themselves to be civilized. It repulsed him, _disgusted_ him.

What was easier was not always what was _right_. Too many took the easy way out.

He was not, had not been, and would never be, that sort of man.

He had been granted a divine right from Ishvala. Through horror and horror, through near- _genocide_ , he had prevailed, by Ishvala’s divine will. Where so many of his people had fallen, he survived. A twist of fate had left him with a blasphemous tool of his God’s designation, which he did not wield without the faintest sense of shame and irony. Regardless, he _understood_. This was his punishment so well as his saving grace. He thanked Ishvala for it every day, while hating it beyond logic, carrying enough rancor and self-loathing in his heart to drive a lesser man to kill himself. When his plight was at an end, maybe he would do so. But not yet.

Seven alchemists had had reparation exacted from them, for doing themselves an injustice in their lives, and with their intentions. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the Military began putting pieces together, if incorrectly. He did not want them all, though he prayed the rest would take their cue from Ishvala’s judgement and aspire to do more with alchemy--however sacrilegious the practice was, he could not judge _against_ the religious beliefs of other no matter how much they differed from his own--than serve their own ruin. There were two more from the pool of potential state alchemists. He would come back to them. In the meantime he would begin exacting his revenge on the currently installed State Alchemists, and those, like Elric, who had made their mark on the world for the worse.

It didn’t matter that Elric had “retired”. He continued to contract with the Military, with the Flame Alchemist, and had aided and abetted some of the worst of mankind during his time as the Fullmetal Alchemist. He had not made strict enough efforts to counter his transgressions. Elric was _not_ a man of the people, and could not be said to have learned anything from Liore, from Youswell, from the Drachma assaults, from _anything_. His efforts and _abuse_ of the people was single-minded, and history would forever document the havoc that fell in the Fullmetal Alchemist’s wake. Only the _Heros of Ishval_ inspired more loathing in his would-be murderer. Them, and his own guilt.

He would leave the Fullmetal Alchemist, for now. The Military would be tight around Elric for the time being, and in smaller centers he was much more likely to be spotted and flushed out. He had too much work to do to risk another onslaught so quickly. He would go back to Central as soon as he could, where they would not expect him to be, now having thrown a wrench in their certainty of his modus operandi. He would use the distraction to take out the Iron Blood Alchemist, the Sewing Life Alchemist, the Freezing Alchemist, and then the rest… whomever he could reach with his ordnance of Ishvala’s divinity. Sooner or later, Edward Elric would answer for his immorality.

That morning at Central Station, it hadn’t been challenging to smuggle himself into the stock car, even though it had been very unpleasant to camp, for however short a period of time, with sheep. He had simply waited for the opportune moment, then had climbed onto the roof, scaling the train cars, dropping between doors until he found exactly who it was he was looking for. After fleeing the bridge following Elric’s escape, he had hid in the forest for five hours before the train was removed, before the regular routes continued. He had made his way then to the nearest railroad switch and had hopped, un-spotted, onto the slowed locomotive. Employing his same tactic from the morning, he had stored himself with livestock (bovine, this time), and waited to see where he would end up, praying all the while that Ishvala would bring him quickly and quietly to the next recipient of his God’s inescapable judgement.

At nine o’clock that night, he arrived in East City.

***

The kiss is soft, and sweet, and hesitant. It is also short.

Edward brings his flesh hand to my face, awkwardly (we have shifted strangely, and I can only imagine how challenging it is for Edward to twist without having two legs to pivot), and touches me gently before we break apart. His automail hand is still resting over mine in my lap. He doesn’t move very far away, our breaths mingling. Edward licks his lips. “Is. Is this okay?” he asks, voice deep, words laced with lust and anxiety. It’s an imploring sort of question, like he’s never wanted anything more.

Heat is still pooled and continues pooling in my face. My stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of my eyeballs, and some vague part of me whispers that I must be dreaming. I ignore it, and shift my fingers to lace with his automail hand, then rest my head against his forehead, closing my eyes. “No, it’s terrible, you _idiot_ ,” I manage, and he laughs. I bring my free hand to rest on his chest, close to his heart, feeling the quick _babumbabumbabum_. I smile widely. “Are you going to kiss me again, or what?”

He doesn’t need telling twice.

There’s no hesitancy in this one. It’s a deep and purposeful kiss, his flesh hand sliding to the back of my neck. I scooch forward, wanting to close as much distance between us as I possibly can. I didn’t realize, until he'd kissed me, just how much I had wanted it to happen. We have been teasing (some might say flirting with) one another since his first flash of that Signature Dick Grin when Mrs. Hughes was showing me the apartment, and while something bordering on satisfaction always bubbled up in me each time I managed to elicit a desired reaction from Edward, I’d never considered that perhaps cataloging them for my own devices was something a person does when they’re infatuated with someone else. I acknowledged, then, that I was sort of enthralled with Edward’s _presence_ , sure. I just didn’t quite realize that he was as addicting as he was intoxicating. Apparently I wasn’t just registering for attempted murders and helping to solve crimes when I signed my lease, but also to allow myself to be drawn in, emotionally and amorously, by my nutcase of a roommate.

Who is, currently, sliding an exploratory tongue into my mouth.

I moan, and make the decision to turn my brain off.

Reciprocating in tongue, I pull back long enough to nip his bottom lip before diving back in again. After a few pleasant minutes I decide that the way we’re leaning in together is more conducive to a crick in the neck than a good time, and so break the kiss simultaneously to releasing his hand, then move to gingerly deposit myself in his lap. He very lightly slides his hands over my hips and around, fingers thumbing the elastic of my shorts. “No cuts there,” I whisper, leaning into his ear, and trail kisses along his jawline, back to his lips, hands resting on his shoulders. He shifts his hands down a little, and squeezes my ass.

We’re _both_ a little hesitant in touching one another given the extent of the damage Scar’s attack did to us both, though with such a sensory overload it’s challenging to be distracted by the knowledge that there are injuries at all. Situationally, for me at least, it’s mentally taxing to bring myself to give a shit. I don’t really _want_ Edward to be _timid_ , or _mindful_ ; I want him to touch every inch of me he can reach, pain be damned. (Dealing with the consequences of it… _That’s_ a problem for Future Winry.)

Confidently and only a _little_ carefully I slide my palms down and then back up his chest, tweaking a nipple in passing. I’m rewarded with an indecent groan, which I swallow. He is so God damn _built_ , his chest a solid, beautiful _wall_.

He slides his own hands under my shirt, pulling it off over my head and throwing it, and takes a moment to take in my breasts. I had not worn a bra to bed. “Fucking _hell_ , Winry,” he says under his breath, his eyes flicking up briefly to meet mine before cupping a breast in each hand. He fondles my nipples. I close my eyes and make a small, happy noise, then roll my hips against him. I can feel his erection straining through his pajama pants, pressing against my thigh. Whatever heat was, earlier, in my face, has definitely been redirected to my lap.

He slides his metal hand down to cup the underside of my left breast, pushing it up as he brings his face down. I shift upward on my knees slightly to give him better access, bracing myself against the couch beside his head, as he takes a nipple in his mouth and starts sucking. He continues kneading the other breast, stoking the nipple periodically. He bites the one in his mouth and I gasp. He grins at me through a mouthful of round flesh, and waggles his eyebrows like a moron. Edward to the death. Or in the throes of passion, apparently. _Ass_.

I roll my eyes at him, and he bites again.

I detach him from my chest and guide his lips back to mine. He continues fondling, the idea of being _wary_ or _careful_ thankfully forgotten in favor of the moment. (I am desperately glad we are on the same wavelength here.) I have both hands around the back of Edward’s head, half-tangled in his hair, which is scandalously soft.

I roll my hips again, and he whines in a wanton way against my mouth. His hands move smoothly from my breasts to my sides, past my hips and to my thighs, fingers inching under the legs of my shorts. When they find the impractical lace of my panties, they loop the sides and tug, mildly, in a desperately questioning way. I make an urging sort of noise, and while the automail finger continues to tug, the flesh one slips under the material and down, feeling for and finding slick wetness between my legs.

“ _Winry_ ,” Edward manages, though I think that he, like me, is having a hard time remembering how to speak English right now. “I. Um. What do. Do you. I mean.”

He’s delightfully flustered. I move around to the side of his face and trail my tongue along his ear before nipping and sucking on the lobe. “Is what you’re feeling not answer enough?” I whisper.

“ _Nnnaugh_ ,” is his reply.

I’m in control in this situation. I don’t have the patience to find Edward’s prosthetic and re-attach it, and it’s not going to help us much anyway. Relocating isn’t going to do much good either. I rise up and climb off of Edward’s lap. He’s momentarily confused, but as soon as I start shimmying out of my shorts and underwear (making a bit of a show out of it) his expression goes back to being shamelessly aroused. He pushes off his pajamas and boxers, abandoning them on the floor, not taking his eyes off of me as he does so. He wraps a hand around himself and begins leisurely pumping.

“Could you look anymore pleased with yourself?” I bait, smiling in a bemused sort of way. The biggest part of this pseudo-mating dance, after all (besides a near-death experience, anyway), has been trading insults.

He grins unabashedly,. “You’re one to talk. What, are you going to tell me that all the Rockbell women are not only automail geniuses, but sex panthers too?”

“ _Pantheresses_ ,” I correct mildly, then move to straddle him again. I settle down against him, not around him, and begin to grind, wanting to tease him just a little more yet. “And I’ll let you pass verdict on that when it’s all said and done, sound good?”

“ _Fuck_... _deal_ ,” he manages, both hands rubbing up from my knees to my thighs. After a few minutes of watching each other through half-lidded, lust-fogged eyes, my hips rolling and his hands squeezing, his eyes open widely. “Oh _shit_ , we don’t. I mean. I don’t have--”

I cut him off. “Don’t worry about it. We’re good.”

“You sure?”

I push up on my knees and position myself, wrapping a firm hand around him, guiding him to where he needs to be. I slide the tip of his cock against my wetness first, then push down, slowly. We don’t break eye contact, though we both struggle not to close our eyes--we do both moan in very satisfied sorts of ways--as we sink together. When he’s fully inside of me, I say, “Yes, I’m sure.”

He grips my thighs for dear life, but clearly doesn’t trust himself to respond.

I start moving.

I’m slow at first, seeking a rhythm, and he shifts under me slightly to help things connect. It doesn’t take us long to find a stride. He touches me all over--thighs and waist to belly, to breasts (which he pays considerable attention) to my face--bringing me in for more earnest, frenzied kisses. Feeling him hardening more inside of me, I break us apart and put two of my fingers in his mouth to wet, then bring them back down to rub circles at my clit. It’s swollen and receptive, and I don’t think it’s going to take much to finish myself off. Edward watches me with distracted interest, invested in the proceedings but close, I think, to his own climax.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says. “I want to see you come. Tell me what to do?”

I smile, teetering on the edge. “Just touch me,” I breathe.

He catches a nipple in his mouth again, and sucks, holding and massaging it with his automail hand, his flesh one digging its fingers into my thigh. A few erratic movements later and a blissful wave washes over me. I feel my muscles contracting around Edward and I think that my hips are, at this point, continuing to move of their own accord. I gasp and groan, leaning into him.

“Shit, I’m going to--” Edward says, releasing my breast. He bites my shoulder and pulls me in closer to him, murmuring against the flesh as he jerks into me. He's gripping my back in a way that I know, even in my post-coital fog, is going to hurt _a lot_ later.

When it’s all said and done we sit like that for a minute, wrapped around one another, until our ragged breathing evens out. Edward buries his face in my hair. “I _think_ ," he starts, "I think that the pantheress prestige lives on in you.” There's a an faux-impertinent tone to his voice, and I’m already laughing. “I might need to put you to the test though. A few more times, at least. To be sure.”


	10. (A Morning-After Interlude.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can but try.

When I wake up the next morning I’m alone in Edward’s bed, naked on my stomach, and half wrapped up in the sheets like a human burrito. My mouth is dry, and all parts of my body are numbly throbbing, on the edges of _really hurting_. (After our early morning festivities we’d relocated to sleep, though not before fooling around a little more to our own mental and physical detriment.) Reasonably I knew, given what I’d been through, that today would be about aching joints, itchy starter scabs and stitched skin, and cataloging the bruises that had bloomed since going to sleep. I hadn’t counted on sex with Edward, or, consequently, on either of us not giving a shit what we touched, or how roughly; I gingerly roll over onto my back and disentangle myself from the bed linens, then push myself up on my elbows to look around. Still no sign of Edward. The clock on the side table reads 8:42 A.M. (which means I've had a little over four hours of sleep; a great start to the next three days of building a leg from scratch) and there’s a scrap of paper next to it in barely legible chicken scratch that reads: _gone for coffee, back soon - E_.

Coffee. _Excellent_.

Future Winry, as expected, is not overly pleased with Past Winry’s flippant attitude toward the consequential pain I am now experiencing. It is slow going with a lot of wincing, but I get out of bed. I grab a sheet because my discarded clothing did not migrate into this room with me; I have no interest in finding Ross and Brosh in the next room or something, and giving them an impromptu show. I wrap it around me toga-style, then open the door. There’s nobody there. I head across to my own room, retrieving my clothes as I go (it looks like Edward has already grabbed his). In my own room with the door closed I discard the sheet, and after a once-over of my body for that aforementioned bruise cataloging, I quickly get dressed. I put back on last night’s underwear, tank top and sleep shorts, with the addition of a hoodie, figuring on another shower sometime after Edward returns with coffee. I take a few moments to brush the knots out of my hair, and pull it up into a ponytail. As I’m tightening after the last loop, I hear voices in the next room. At least moderately satisfied with how I must look (there's no helping the cuts and bruises, after all), I take the noise as a cue, and pad back into the living space.

“Morning, Miss Rockbell,” Maria Ross says cheerfully from the door. I smile and return her greeting. She’s holding the door open for Sergeant Brosh, who’s bringing in a couple of boxes that look to be full of the supplies I’d requested for building Edward’s leg. “Did you sleep well?”

I shrug noncommittally.

“Ah well, a new bed always takes some getting used to.”

Yeah, _something_ like that.

Edward is sitting at the table, trying to align a newspaper correctly into his vision with squinty eyes (I’m reminded of his broken glasses and wonder absently if he has another pair at home). A steaming, paper cup of what I presume to be coffee is in his hand, and there’s another one sitting in front of the empty chair closest to him. His hair’s pulled back in a ponytail like mine, and he’s wearing jeans and a bright red, knit shirt with a hood. It’s probably the most normal I’ve ever seen him dress. His temporary prosthetic still seems to be attached from his coffee run. When he looks at me he gives me a lopsided smile that practically screams _uh-Winry-how-the-hell-do-I-address-this_ , though it’s tinged with obvious pleasure. I give him a similar smile back. He starts to blush, which causes me to start to blush, which, all-in-all, I find sort of hilarious. I rub the back of my neck, embarrassed, and gesture to the spare coffee cup with my other hand. “Is that for me?” I ask. He nods, and I sit down.

“Sir, Sergeant Brosh and I are heading down for breakfast, then we’ll be taking a few hours leave to sleep.” Ross is standing in the doorway still, though Brosh is behind her; it looks as though he’s finished bringing in supplies. “Second Lieutenant Payne and Sergeant Boone will be taking over for us until then. They’ll be here if you need them.”

Rolling his eyes, Edward says, “Thanks, Second Lieutenant. And _please_ don’t call me _sir_. I'm not in the military anymore.”

“Force of habit,” she answers with a grin. “ _Sir_.” Edward makes a defeated sort of noise, and then Ross and Brosh are gone, shutting the door behind them.

Edward clears his throat. “Morning.”

I peer at him over the top of my cup, inhaling the delicious smell, thankful that my simple tastes-- _black_ \--are easy for anyone and everyone to get perfect. “Morning,” I reply. I shift the chair a little so that I’m at an angle from him, facing him, and then pull up my legs to sit cross-legged. “Anything interesting in the news this morning?”

“Apparently a suicidal nitwit attacked two civilians on a train. They took it as an opportune time to take up extreme skydiving.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Ha _ha_. Any signs of Scar?”

“Nope, nada,” Edward answers. He’s still holding his paper, though no longer looking at it, looking at me instead. “Are you going to be working on my leg today?”

I nod. “Yeah. Might have to work through the night, not sure. Probably through tomorrow and the day after as well. Thankfully I already have some blueprints in my toolkit, or I’d be doing those first.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You planning to sleep at all?”

I snort. “I was planning on sleeping last night, to compensate.”

He gives me a wry smile. “Sorry… _not_ sorry?”

“ _Ninny_ ,” I say, but I’m smiling. I almost say, _I’m not sorry either_ , but decide that ribbing one another is a lot less full of landmines than anything resembling a serious conversation this early, and after so little sleep. I take a sip of my coffee, instead. It’s hot but not too hot, pretty much perfect. (I love morning routines. I love coffee with newspaper and quiet, giving your mind and body time to join you in the land of the living.) “Can I have the science pages?”

Edward looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t, and passes me the requisitioned section mutely. I flip it over and lean back a bit in my seat, _gingerly_ , folding the top over and starting to read an article about Rush Valley’s advances in weaponized prosthetics. It’s pretty absorbing and leads me easily into a related article about consumption and cost, about what people are willing to pay for quality automail. Edward and I sit in what I feel is companionable silence for at least 15 minutes, though into my third article (“The New Wave: Commissioning Automail Technicians to Build Car Engines?”) I start to get that crawling feeling that comes over a person when they realize that they’re being watched.

“I can feel you looking at me,” I say, not looking up.

“And? Am I not allowed to look?”

“You can if you want I guess, but I can’t imagine what about me is so engrossing right now. Is there a giant bruise on my face or something? It feels like there is.”

“No.”

I want to look up, but at the same time I don’t. I will my face not to redden (and lose), and turn a page absently, even though I’ve been rereading the same words without taking them in since I started talking again. I unsuccessfully try to re-immerse myself in the world of Amestrian technology.

“Winry.”

“Mmm?” I allow my eyes to flick up briefly, and find him looking annoyed, but grinning. Still lopsided. Still shit-eating. I focus back on an off-putting advertisement featuring a scantily-clad woman waving a wrench around.

“I know you probably think I’m an emotionally stunted moron or something, but you don’t have to act like… I dunno. Like nothing happened.”

I bring myself up from my fake-reading fully, and raise my eyebrows. “I'm _not_. What do you want me to do, Edward? Fawn all over you? Lovey-dovey soliloquies are not exactly my style.”

Edward frowns. “I know that. I’m not-- No, look, I just. I didn’t _mean_ for that to happen. _Not_ that I didn’t want it to.” He adds the last sentence on so quickly that I almost laugh. “I’m glad it did, I just. I’ve done love it and leave it before and it’s bullshit. And, uh. We didn’t sort anything out before we got… _physical_ \--” I snort and he glares “-- _Shut up_. What I’m _trying_ to say is that initiating that wasn’t some holy-shit-I-nearly-died thing, you know? Or for the sake of it.”

I’m smiling, again. I begin to wonder if a _yearning_ smile won't be a perpetual accessory for me for the foreseeable future. “Yeah, I know. Neither was my reciprocating.”

“Not saying that the high stemming from it didn’t encourage me somewhat--”

“Ditto.”

“--but. Yeah.” He’s looking bashful and uncomfortable and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him talk this willingly for any length of time without playing devil’s advocate in some capacity. “So. I want to give it an _actual_ go. Not just sex. Though sex is good, _very_ good.”

My smile has become a full-fledged grin. “Edward Elric, _closet romantic_ , who knew?”

“Well I could whip out some pansy adjectives like from your dirty novel, if you want,” he counters, making his eyebrows wag in a ludicrous way. “Though I’m man enough to admit that my vocabulary is not half so flowery. I could probably come up with loads of synonyms for your tits, though.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

Heaving bosoms and ripped bodices and their ilk are all well and good within the confines of fiction that’s not pretending to be anything but cheesy, but in real life I like my partners to be more grounded. I wouldn’t know what to do with being adorned in tokens of affection, or of having my alabaster brow described with troubling affection through wordy sonnets or what have you. I’m the kind of woman who wants a relationship that, in itself (and in small ways instead of big ones), speaks volumes about love and commitment and comfort. Edward is smart, and witty, and I enjoy spending time with him--not to mention that he is incredibly good-looking and built like a lithe oak tree--even when he’s using said time to drive me bonkers. I want trust, and respect, and patience. I might give him a pass on patience for now, but he’s earned my trust in spades, and has already shown he respects me for who I am, and what I do.

My grandmother once told me that the real, life-changing relationships don’t necessarily start with grand professions of soul mates and true love. They’re rarely epiphanies off the hop. You start with nothing but the promise of something more solid, something that you can build together. If you start it off strong it’ll hold, but if you force it, or rush it, it’ll fall apart. She also said that those life-changing relationships are something that you stumble on, that there’s no right way or wrong way, and that sometimes it’ll look like you’re going ass-backwards. It doesn’t mean it’s wrong, or weird, or less important. Good stories are for polite conversation. Great relationships are meant for the people that share them.

“If you’re the picture of sophisticated grace, then I’m the Fuhrer,” Edward says dryly.

“You are _so_ good at wooing me, Edward. Seriously, my heart is all a titter over here. I think that I might swoon.”

“Crazy gearhead.”

“Alchemy freak.”

We’re both grinning like witless idiots. Give me lighthearted derision over ornamental discourse any day, seriously. I’d get bored if my significant other couldn’t keep up, or if he couldn't take teasing in stride. 

Edward stands up suddenly. He pushes his chair over directly in front of me, then plops down again. He takes the newspaper away from me and puts it on the table. I’ve already abandoned my half-drunk coffee. He takes both my hands in his. “We could keep this up all day, I’m sure,” he says. “But seriously. You know, _obviously_ , that I’ve got a thing for you. And it’d be cool, if the feeling’s mutual, if we made our mutual thing a… _thing_. I don’t want this to be weird, or anything. I want you to keep working with me on this case, and maybe more in the future, because you’re good at what you do. So.” He’s looking at me with a shy expression that's mesmerizing, and that seems incredibly foreign on Edward’s face. “I dunno. What do you think? _Actually_.”

I bite my bottom lip. My smile is probably too big to be considered sensible, and for a brief moment I allow myself to feel like an emotionally-overwhelmed teenage girl being asked on her first date with a _cool_ boy. I squeeze his hands. He's making me ridiculous. I’m practically _beaming_. “I’d like that," I say. "A mutual thing.”

“Great, _wicked_ ,” Edward answers, shy expression morphing into a shy smile. He leans in and gives me a deep, sweet kiss. “Lets, um. Lets go get some food. Before you start working.”

“Okay,” I reply.

The case and rebuilding Edward a leg should take precedence over everything else right now (I don’t know him very well, but I get the feeling that if Colonel Mustang could see us now there’d be a lot of exaggerated eye rolling, and a mild lecture about being grown-ups and having _priorities_ ); I need to work fast and efficiently to get us back on track, to get us moving forward again. We have to get to East City and then back to Central as soon as we can. There’s not _really_ time to go and bullshit over eggs for half an hour, or even time for this little bubble of a moment, just like there really wasn’t time for last night’s indulgence. I’m going to have to push myself, and exhaust myself; I’m going to seriously have to abuse myself, and physically, honestly, I’m already pretty decently abused. I write off having that shower I’d thought about earlier, sacrificing it for Edward. Edward with his red cheeks, and red sweater and lips reddened from a damn good kiss; a man whose goofy smile I want more time to study.

Like last night, though, I pass off what I should be worrying about and focusing on to Future Winry.

Present Winry has a breakfast date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't intentional, but I just couldn't stop myself.


	11. Durant & Cropper Do NOT Talk to the Military

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We must look for consistency. Where there is a want of it we must suspect deception.

Four days later, at too-damn-early-o’clock, we’re on a train bound for East City.

I am grumpy and sleep-deprived, and Edward is completely enamored with his new and improved leg, and with his fine-tuned arm (which I don’t think worked as well as it does now when it was first installed; it was a tall order to expect me to succeed in molding that junk appendage into Rockbell-quality automail, and I absolutely did _not_ succeed. At least it’s no longer total shit, though, and I’ll build Edward a properly functioning one once we’re back in Central). He’s been flexing and bracing his leg against the wall, and generally being obnoxious in his preoccupation with both appendages since we connected the leg the night before. The first thing he’d done had been a practical demonstration of my success; that is to say he’d scooped me up--grease and sweat and crabbiness and all--and pinned me against a wall.

Despite my commitment to his automail, and just how uncomfortably aware the both of us were of the tightness of our schedule, it was very, _very_ challenging for Edward and I to abstain from one another, in _any_ capacity, over the course of my building his leg. I feel mildly guilty about this still, and I think Edward does too, but there’s not much we can do or change about it now. We _tried_ , anyway. Maybe not as hard as we could’ve or should’ve, but I _swear_ that there was _some_ effort on both our parts to avoid jumping one another’s bones at every available opportunity.

During the day, Edward would leave the building completely rather than tempt us, and tried to read and distract himself in the mornings and the evenings. _I_ tried diligently to immerse myself in my work, which I _could_ , mostly, manage during his absences (I just couldn’t stop him from sneaking into my thoughts). When he was in the room though, or even in his own room, we were (and are) so hyper-aware of one another that it was (and is) almost stupid. No, scratch that, it _is_ stupid. It’s a good, maybe even _great_ , sort of stupid, but it’s still stupid. Up until that first night in the barracks I’d gone well over six months without any sort of sexual entanglement, and was managing just fine. Now it’s like someone ( _Edward_ , I guess) has keyed in the code to send my sexual appetite into overdrive. It is _exhausting_ , physically and emotionally, wanting to bang someone this much.

(It’s also sort of awesome.)

Anyway, the point of all that rambling was that we didn’t do a particularly great job of staying focused, and fell victim to temptation at least twice a day/night. Three times yesterday. _And_ , if Ross and Brosh’s consistently awkward, uncomfortable-seeming expressions were any indication, we also didn’t do a particularly great job keeping our voices down.

I’m sitting with a coffee in my hands, nursing it irritably. I hadn’t actually finished Edward’s leg until one-o’clock this morning, and then there’d been the connection process, and _then_ there’d been, well, you know. So Edward and I had managed about two hours of sleep, if that, before we’d been roused out of bed, given more updated information on the case file and background information on Audun Rache, and then were deposited at the train station and sent on our way. All this before the birds were even up. Ross and Brosh are still with us, and have been assigned to babysit us until we return to Central. Right now they’re two seats behind us in the otherwise empty train car, heads leaned against one another, fast asleep and drooling.

“Huh. Interesting.” Edward’s already getting a head-start on the updated case file.

“What’s interesting?” I ask. He’s stopped flexing and being a general idiot about his automail, and is across from me, squinting like an old man at the files, holding them absurdly close to his face. He’d got his red sweater on again, and a pair of jeans, his hair pulled back in its customary ponytail.

He half-shrugs. “Apparently Colonel Dumbshit’s team has been trying to find connections between the victims. Looks like it’s not so cut and dry as them being State Alchemist applicants.”

“Well that figures.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Well he attacked you, didn’t he? You’re not an applicant.”

“I guess,” Edward says, and it’s obvious he hasn’t, purposefully or not, put much thought into why exactly Scar attacked him. It’s mildly alarming to me that he might think there’s likely a reasonable explanation for his being targeted, but it’s less pressing than the rest of the case at the moment, so I set the feeling aside for now. “It looks like he made an attempt on Major Armstrong last night, too. He’s a State Alchemist,” he explains to my blank expression. “The Strong-Arm Alchemist.”

I run a hand through my loose hair. “Any relation to the Northern Wall of Briggs?”

Edward snorts. “Yeah. That’s his sister.”

“Weird.” I take in the idea of Major General Armstrong having a brother, or anything resembling familial sentiment. It’s a challenging idea to swallow. “ _So_. Um. Where’s Scar, then?”

Edward’s eye twitches, and he laughs hollowly. “East City.”

I snort and roll my eyes, “Well, _naturally_!” I say sarcastically. “Lets just waltz right into a city where the lunatic who just attacked us is on a murderous rampage, that sounds like a solid bloody plan.”

Edward smirks, then shrugs again. “No kidding,” he says. “But we’ve already put off interviewing Rache too long as it is. Apparently that’s why Armstrong was in the city to begin with; I mean, he could probably interview Rache himself, but I'm pretty sure Mustang suspects that something alchemically sinister will be apparent when we meet him, and that's more up my alley. Mustang sent him ahead of us to scout out Rache and make sure he hadn’t caught wind of things and fled or something. Also, he’s meant to join our _protective guard_.” He gestures back to Ross and Brosh, who presently look about as intimidating as a pair of toddlers.

“He’s not dead, though? That's impressive, considering Scar's track record.”

Edward shakes his head and smirks again. “The art of not dying easily has been passed down through the Armstrong family for generations.”

“Uh. What?”

“Never mind. You’ll see soon enough why he’s not dead.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. If Major Armstrong is as no-nonsense and strong-willed as his sister, then there’s no need for explanation. Edward amusement infers something else, though, and it makes me wary in a am-I-about-to-get-pranked-? sort of way.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Edward continues, stretching his arms upward, and yawning, before returning to the case file. “Apparently the targets before me were involved in some sort of research project up in North City, with a master alchemist more off his nut than Audun Rache. Some dude named Brigham Abbey. ‘ _Master of elemental alchemy_ ’.”

“And where’s he?”

“Dead. They’re saying he killed himself.”

My eyes open wide in surprise. “Actually?”

“Yeah. He left a note that said he couldn’t live with himself anymore, and according to the forensics he put a gun in his mouth.” Edward cocks his head to the side, surveying what looks to be photographs. “Doesn’t look that way to me, but these aren’t particularly great pictures. Looks like there could be some small traces of alchemy, though.”

“Huh.”

“I think I’ll ring Mustang about it when we get to East City.”

We’re quiet for a minute, and Edward skims a few more pages.

“When did all this happen, exactly?” I ask finally, brain whirring, trying to process what I’ve just been told. 

“Huh? Oh. Well, apparently the unspecified research for which there is no documented information whatsoever, completed by a team of now mostly dead people, minus two in protective custody, finished six months before Abbey died, which was… four months ago.”

“And what are the two left alive saying?”

Edward frowns, and flips a few more pages over. “Not much, apparently. Whatever it was they did, they all signed confidentiality agreements to whomever it was that funded it, who they also are not at liberty to name. I guess the Military is trying to get a subpoena for the information, through the lawyer who drew up the documents, but the agreement is pretty air-tight. They _have_ said that they all were recruited individually by Abbey, though, and that the crux of what they were doing was contract research related to the Drachma assault.”

“I was in Briggs, then,” I say, slowly, the bits of information turning over in my head and trying to fit themselves together, a bunch of not-seemingly compatible puzzle pieces. “I was there for two years. I went to North City a lot, and passed a lot of messages for the soldiers and others living at the Fort." I put my coffee cup down and start chewing on my fingers. “Are there pictures of all the victims, and the two still left alive?”

Edward rifles through the files again. “Look at that, there’s a group photo. Dated thirteen months ago. You wouldn’t think, given the level of secrecy involved in what they were doing, that they’d want such an, I don’t know, _incriminating_ picture to be able to float around.” He analyzes it briefly himself, scratching his head. “Looks like Vera Biennial still has her prosthetic in it.” He passes the photo over to me.

I give a minute to each face, taking them all in carefully, to see if any are familiar in the slightest. Some give me mild deja vu. “I’d heard rumors, then, that the government was secretly funding something for a super soldier project related to alchemy, to combat the Drachmans.”

“What, like Ishval?”

“I guess? I don’t know. I never put much stock in it. I mean, tensions were high. Briggs was, at best, a stronghold against full-blown war, and, at worst, an actual war zone, so... I just figured that all a lot of the soldiers knew about Amestrian military tactics _was_ Ishval. They wanted it to be over, and a lot of rumors are born out of… you know.” I shrug. “Misguided hope.”

Edward is quiet for a minute after that, and I continue interrogating my memory with each face, half-hoping to clearly recognize someone, half not. “Guess I’m not the only one who’s been through hell and back,” he says.

I look up at him, surprised. “I was building limbs, not shooting them off.”

Edward doesn’t respond to this, but his gaze doesn’t waver either.

I return my attention to the photo.

The very last face I look at is shockingly familiar. “I know her,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable and mildly bewildered. Had I been unknowingly aiding and abetting something horrendous? “That’s. That’s Cherida. I used to take messages back and forth between her and Dr. Marcoh.” I look back up at Edward, gearing up to explain who Dr. Marcoh was or is, and realize that recognition has flitted across his face.

“Tim Marcoh?” he clarifies, sounding about as confused as I feel. “The Crystal Alchemist?”

I nod. “He was at Briggs for...I don’t know. Not quite a year, but more than six months. Cherida was his apprentice until Ishval. He’d invited her to join his research team, but she’d declined. He’d told me she was doing research of her own now-- _then_ , I guess--and that their close proximity had caused her to reach out for assistance on whatever it was she was doing. _Edward_.” My voice betrays my fear of the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Is she, um. Is she dead?”

Edward thumbs through the file once again, quickly. “Cherida Durant,” he says. “No. No, she’s still alive. She’s one of the ones in custody.”

Relief washes over me. I close my eyes and say a small prayer of thanks. I couldn’t even count the number of times Cherida and I had had coffee and conversation together. It had been a few meetings of quick note passing before we’d gotten more familiar with one another, and made a thing of it, but in the end, even after Dr. Marcoh had left, we had still met up, kept up our friendship. I used to look forward to going into the city to see her, to talk about everything and nothing, though definitely never research in any capacity, hers or Dr. Marcoh’s. She didn’t talk much about Dr. Marcoh or his notes, either, other than to say he’d been a big help. She’d left the North before I did, and I’d gotten letters from her once or twice afterward, though nothing in the last few months.

“She’s a friend of mine,” I say.

Edward exhales slowly. “ _Well_. Guess we’ve got lots to tell Mustang. More than he’ll expect, anyhow.”

***

They’ve been sequestered from the others in a bland, white room with sparse furniture and a one-way mirror. The man, a Philip Cropper, and the woman, Cherida Durant, are sitting away from one another and avoiding each another’s gaze, obviously uncomfortable and ill at ease. Roy Mustang (by himself, for the moment) watches them in annoyance in the dark room on the other side of the glass, willing them to say _something_ , _anything_ , so he can analyze their body language if not their words. They sit stiff, neither touching the cups of coffee that have been provided for them, looking for all intents and purposes like they’re uncomfortably confused by the Military’s actions. All in all, Mustang supposes they have a right to be; legally there’s nothing they can even allude to, let alone say outright. He’s read the contracts himself, and has had them read by others probably a thousand times by now. It’s an extreme situation, though, currently controlled by a pedantic serial killer with religious zeal, and their austere laconism is incredibly disconcerting.

Mustang thinks they ought to be a little more forthcoming with their nonspecific information, but they are _not_ , and so he wants to smack them both upside the head in frustration. This entire case has been more questions than answers, and he hasn’t slept nearly enough in the last week to handle any of it in something resembling stride.

Seven of Cropper and Durant’s colleagues are dead, and all they’ve had to say to the possibility of being murdered by Scar themselves is that, “We probably deserve it.”

What in God’s name had they been made to do that had left them to despise themselves so? That had prompted Brigham Abbey to kill himself?

Mustang is still watching them forty minutes later when Hawkeye pops her head in and shakes him out of his near obsessive and very unfruitful preoccupations. Cropper and Durant have, unsurprisingly, said and done absolutely nothing; they’ve barely moved to so much as scratch their noses, and their mugs still sit untouched (and now cold) in front of each of them. Hawkeye eyes him warily as she hands him a fresh cup of coffee, telling him that Edward Elric is on a secure line from East City and that he and Miss Rockbell have some more information pertaining to the case. No, they have not found Rache yet, nor have there been any more signs of Scar, but then they’ve only just arrived. Mustang hopes almost desperately that what they have to tell him contains answers, and not more questions, though he’s not particularly optimistic. He leaves Cropper and Durant to their reticent self-loathing, unsupervised, for about ten minutes, unconcerned, as there's nowhere for them to go.

When a young Sergeant takes Mustang’s place in watching, however, he’s met with an empty room.


	12. A Pretense for Groping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any truth is better than indefinite doubt.

We’re met at the East City station by two disconcerting height extremes.

Given the blonde curl and Amestrian blue, I figure that there’s no way this mustachioed muscle-man can be anyone _but_ Olivier Armstrong’s brother. He has the strangest aura about him, and picks up Edward, Brosh and Ross together, clutching them all in a bone-crushing hug that momentarily makes me worry that their collective eyeballs might be squeezed straight out of their heads. I'm thankful that the majority of Edward's injuries from the train fight are healed, though I can't imagine that any part of that hug was comfortable for him. I get what Edward meant about how seeing Armstrong would make it clear why he’s not dead, and wonder to my own amusement if the Major had given Scar an eyeball-popping hug too. It’s no less than that murderous loony deserves.

Released from the Major’s embrace, Edward is purple in the face and obviously winded, and he bends down and leans forward on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Brosh braces himself against a wall, while Ross braces herself against him.

“Please-- tone down -- t-the -- enthusiasm -- sir,” she manages between gulps of air.

I eye the Major warily myself, ready to pull out my wrench in defense, liking my organs to stay where they are, thank you very much. Instead he bows gallantly, startling me completely. “Miss Winry Rockbell, a true pleasure!” he says in a booming (but cordial) voice that leaves me flustered, considering how apparent it was that the large man cared little for boundaries. “I have made acquaintance with your formidable grandmother! She has told me much about you, including that you worked under my darling sister in Fort Briggs. It is a _delight_ to have you working with us on this case!”

“ _Uh_ , um. Thanks?”

I bend to give my ‘formidable’ grandmother a hug, as that’s exactly who the short, older woman contrasting Major Armstrong’s gigantic-ness is; it’s been months since I saw her last, and I’ve missed her very much. “Good to see you, girl,” she says, and I smile into our embrace.

“Your _grandmother_?” Edward wheezes, looking up at us. “Is that who that tiny old lady is?”

My face turns red and I release Granny to properly glare at Edward. “ _Edward_! Are you actually _completely_ tactless, you moron?”

He looks confused for a moment, but Granny interjects before he can say anything.

“ _Pinako Rockbell_ ,” she says to him with narrowed eyes. She has always had this stern, unruffled way about her, but when she gets angry, well… _she gets angry_. I can see a vein throbbing in her temple as she looks between Edward and I. She raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug. I told her, more or less, that Edward and I were doing a _mutual thing_ , when I’d called to let her know we were on route to East City. I’d already given her a probably less than favorable impression of Edward in my time living with him, and so between that, my nearly dying after joining him on a Military investigation, and his most recent comment, to say she wasn’t overly impressed with my choice or _him_ was something of an understatement.

Edward pulls himself up to his full height, his ability to breathe mostly reinstated, looking slightly embarrassed but mostly annoyed. “Edward Elric. _Ma’am_ ,” he says, and there’s obvious dryness in the challenging tone of his voice. I bury my face in my hands, resisting the urge to smack him.

“ _Hmmph_ ,” she says. “The last time I saw you, _young man_ , you were an angry, blotchy toddler, and I’d chastised you for whacking your baby brother with a stick.” Edward’s eyes go wide. “I’ve also changed too many of your shitty nappies to count, so drop the attitude. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got any right to comment on anybody else’s height, pipsqueak. What are you now, three apples tall?” I wonder, desperately, if it’s possible to melt into the floor. Obviously Edward and I had made the Resembool connection, but this is the first time Granny’s said _anything_ about having babysat my--new _Boyfriend_? Partner? Beau? Blegh, titles are horrendous-- _Edward_.

“Wh-- I--Wh--!” Edward splutters, his face, chin to forehead, coloring an amazing shade of red.

“And if you want to keep groping my granddaughter, you should really work on your manners,” she adds hotly. Edward makes a high-pitched sound of incredible discomfort, and grows impossibly redder. I feel heat growing in my own face. I’m not sure that I’ve _ever_ been this mortified, and I’m 21-years-old, for God’s sake. Ross, Brosh and Major Armstrong are demonstrating completely justifiable discomfort at the situation as well-- _especially_ given this is quickly becoming a _scene_ , in public, and to them Granny and I are practically strangers--and have inched out of firing range.

“ _Granny_!”

“What?” she asks, feigning innocence. “I don’t care how good he is at schtupping you. If he can’t be civil, or show a little more respect to the woman that raised you, then he can go hang. I’ve got higher standards than that, and so should you have.”

My face is back in my hands again. “Oh my _God_ , Granny,” I mumble through my fingers, and she laughs heartily. I peer at Edward, who seems to be internally combusting with rage and embarrassment, and clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself. I sincerely hope that his enjoyment in, ugh, ‘ _schtupping_ ’ me outweighs his obvious need to start yelling obscenities.

“Good to see I’m still capable of embarrassing you,” Granny says, amused.

Major Armstrong clears his throat. “Perhaps. Perhaps it would be best for us to relocate?” he suggests with as much timidness as his loud-voiced baritone can manage. "So we are able to regroup before carrying out our mission?”

Still fuming, Edward shoots a betrayed, accusatory look at me (and, yes, perhaps I _should_ have prepared him for this), and an angry, sort-of pouty one at Granny, before saying to Armstrong, “We need to call Colonel Assface first.”

“ _Assface_. Charming," Granny says. "Well. You can do that at my house, then we can all have lunch,” she continues brusquely, and we all turn to look at her in surprise. “What? The fellow doing all the murdering is going to be scoping out Military vantage points if he’s hoping to off the twerp here, isn’t he? Better to be as far away from it as you can manage. And maybe you three,” she adds, addressing the Major, and Brosh and Ross, “should change into civilian clothes. Can’t stop the big guy here from standing out completely, obviously, but the uniforms are a bit of a dead giveaway, you know.”

The three soldiers are smart enough not to argue with Granny, and look as though they might even agree somewhat with her assessment. “Very well,” says Major Armstrong. “And when we reach your home I shall send word for Second Lieutenant Rebecca Catalina, as she has considerable information concerning our objective. Let us take our leave!”

“Indeed,” Granny says, and leads the way out of the train station.

Edward sidles up close to me and leans into my ear. “ _You owe me_ ,” he says, half in irritation, half hopefully, the implication clear _without_ his added eyebrow waggle.

“You’re hopeless,” I return with a snort, rolling my eyes, and we fall in step behind the Major, Ross and Brosh behind us. “But I _am_ sorry. I should’ve warned you that she’s… _tenacious_.”

“That’s one word. You’re lucky I, uh. What'd she call it? ‘ _Schtupping_ ’, was it?” he says, and grins his Signature Dick Grin at my affirmating ‘ _Oh, God_ ’. “Yeah. There’s an awful lot I’d do to continue _schtupping_ you, Winry.”

I make a mortified sort of noise, but only halfheartedly push at his shoulder in lieu of a reprimand. “You _dirty_ little shithead.”

“You _liiiiike_ it,” he teases, and laces his fingers through mine.

***

Rockbell Automail is toward the outskirts of East City, in the residential end of the industrial district. It’s on the opposite side of the city from the Military HQ, and as far as removed goes, does exactly as Granny had suggested in terms of helping us keep a low profile. Or at least it has done so far. The house is attached to the shop and so our motley band had crammed itself in the kitchen while Granny made us lunch, and while Edward called Central City.

He’d had to use his emergency access code to reach Mustang (he’d been smart enough to ask for Hawkeye, though) given he was calling from an outside line, and once connected had relayed all of our discoveries concerning the case to both parties, to be sure he didn’t forget anything. During the length of the phone call he’d been interrupted in his recitation to Mustang (I think), or at least it seemed that way judging on his reaction. He had then paled a little before saying, “Damn. Yeah. Okay. Will do.” Then he’d hung up.

“So the two applicants they had in protective custody just disappeared out of a locked room somehow,” he explains, sitting down at the table across from me, reaching for and then cramming a proffered sandwich into his mouth.

I blanch, and feel my heart sink to my knees. “Cherida?”

Edward nods. “Yeah. Her and a Philip Cropper. They were just sitting there, avoiding one another and not saying anything, and then Mustang left off watching them to take my call. Locked and guarded door, the room had no vents and no windows, and there were no traces of alchemy that they could find. They were left unsupervised for all of ten minutes, and they just... disappeared. _Poof_. Gone.”

I had to hope that however Cherida had left Central HQ, it had been with an ally of some kind, especially since Scar could easily be in Central City be now; he hadn’t been seen in East City since his attack on Major Armstrong early the previous evening. “This is getting stranger and stranger.”

“You’re telling me. They’re going to try and bring Marcoh in in the meantime, to see what sort of helpful hints he might’ve been passing on to her.”

Major Armstrong, who had gone to put his call in to the Eastern HQ as soon as Edward had finished on the phone, returned now and sat beside me. “Second Lieutenant Catalina assures me she will arrive at our location within twenty minutes, _incognito_ , and with a change of clothes for myself.” Brosh and Ross, having brought luggage with them in accompanying Edward and I for a potentially indeterminable amount of time, had already changed out of their Military blues and were eating at the other end of the table. They occasionally spoke quietly to one another, but were otherwise saying and doing little. I had to hand them one thing, they were doing a very good job of keeping their worries concerning the actual investigation to themselves. Mustang had given them a pretty daunting task all-in-all, to keep watch over someone targeted by a man who’d already killed seven people; it was no mean feat to keep their cool the way they did, soldiers or not.

“I have scoped out the area where Mr. Audun Rache is presumed to be living,” Armstrong continues, reaching for a sandwich himself. “The art of surveillance has been passed down through the Armstrong family for generations!” I look at Edward, who smirks in a _you-get-it-now-don’t-you_ sort of way. “I can confirm that a person of his description resides there, and that he was still there this morning, roughly four hours ago.”

“Well,” Edward says, through a mouthful of his second sandwich. (Or, at least, it _sounds_ like ‘well’.) He swallows. “We wait for Catalina, then we go see Rache. Hopefully it’s cut and dry, and we don't encounter a massive pile of bullshit, so we can go back to Central in the morning.”

***

Rebecca Catalina had a lead foot.

She sped through the Easy City streets purposefully, in a borrowed vehicle with it’s top down, her dark hair and silk scarf billowing behind her. She wore big, brown driving goggles to mask her identity, at least minutely, per Major Armstrong’s instructions, and was out of uniform. She knew that Mustang’s lot had passed on their Military intelligence concerning Rache to Edward Elric, but Becky had the advantage of access to East City’s rumor mill, and so had a few pointed things to divulge best not shared across phone lines, even Military ones, least not while Scar was still hunting alchemists with questionable backgrounds. She felt like this case had opened several cans of worms across the country, and that while it was definitely necessary for Mustang to follow-up with this Bienniel lady’s former teacher, it was quite likely that Edward and his partner would find something that wouldn’t help with dick-all in the Scar case, but that had the potential to trigger something completely different, something completely new.

She’d been assigned by her commanding officer, per Mustang’s request (through Havoc, no doubt; a thought which made her smile), to join with the former Fullmetal Alchemist’s pseudo honor guard while he was in the city. So, in addition to the suit of clothes Armstrong had asked for, Becky also had two rifles in a cello case in the back seat of her car (plus ammunition), and two handguns in holsters that were strapped to her thighs (under an unassuming dress). She also had a couple of reports that had been added to the case file that morning, of which, given the timing, she wasn’t sure Elric had received or not. This included Vato Falman’s completed report concerning the West City crime scenes, and another from an officer who’d been sent to Resembool after Elric and his partner were redirected to Awrosut, to follow up on Vera Bienniel’s lack of prosthetic when she’d died.

Falman’s visit to West City hadn’t been particularly fruitful, though there were a few interesting testimonies from friends and family of the victims. They suggested that those targeted had been depressed since their respective returns from North City, and that they had all been behaving out of character in the weeks leading up to their deaths. All were recruited to apply for their licensing within the same span of time, as well, though the Military had yet to track down where the initial recommendations for any of the North City 9 (for that was how they were now being referred to in Central) had come from. The files seemed to have just… _appeared_ in the recruitment office one day, but at the time no one had really thought anything of it.

The soldier who had followed up in Resembool had had a little more luck; it turned out that Vera Bienniel hadn’t been home in more than a year, but that the last time she had been, she’d absolutely still had her automail leg. Her mechanic was based out of Rush Valley, and a call there told them that the last time she had had her leg serviced was eight months previously. That at least narrowed down the when, if not the how or where.

Becky turned a sharp corner, screeching her tires and startling a few pedestrians. She was about three streets away from Rockbell Automail.

For the moment, though, her information on Rache was much more likely to be immediately helpful. If Becky's sources were correct (and considering she’d heard the same thing six separate times, it seemed likely they were), then Audun Rache wasn’t as bonkers as he made himself out to be. Refugees from Liore said he disturbingly resembled the false prophet who’d brought about the destruction of their city, a ‘priest’ named Father Cornello. They’d thought he performed miracles for the sun God, Leto, but Edward Elric had exposed him as a phony and a war monger. The Fullmetal Alchemist bringing Cornello’s bullshit to light hadn’t stopped the city from erupting in riots, though, nor had it deterred the inhabitants from nearly burning the place to the ground.

Elric’s report on the incident had said that Cornello had had a fake Philosopher’s Stone, and that, in the end, it had rebounded on him causing him severe injury. Deformity didn't match descriptions of Rache, but if he had picked up another stone somewhere, it was completely possible he might've healed himself. Elric didn’t know what had happened to him after he'd been injured, but Cornello hadn’t been seen since. If he was holed up in the East City woods, well. That really would be a whole other kettle of fish, wouldn’t it? Some of Becky's connections had also reported seeing Bienniel shopping nearby in recent months as well, so somewhere between the North City researching, and her ending up dead in Central, she had paid her former teacher a visit. To what end, who knew, but Becky guessed--or _hoped_ \--that they'd soon find out.


End file.
